


Take My Breath Away

by damthosefandoms, Sohotthateveryonedied



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Angst, Anyways, BECAUSE I DON'T KILL OFF CHARACTERS IN FICS, BUT NOT A SINGLE TAGGED CHARACTER DIES IN THIS, Bart Allen is gay fight me, Based on The Fault in Our Stars, Because I like happy endings, Bluepulse, Cancer, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I repeat:, I've got a bluepulse fault in our stars fic for you, Lots of talk about death, M/M, Nobody Dies, Romance, Spitfire - Freeform, THERE IS NO DEATH IN THIS FIC, Terminal Illnesses, all that good stuff, however I just need to say:, okay well that's not true, this is very gay, whattup world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-05 00:11:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20479766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damthosefandoms/pseuds/damthosefandoms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sohotthateveryonedied/pseuds/Sohotthateveryonedied
Summary: Eventually Bart’s turn to introduce himself to the group rolls around, and he withholds a sigh. He rises from his chair, ignoring the ever-present exhaustion that creeps in when he does. Such is the life of a human whose lungs don’t know how to be lungs.“Hi, everyone. I’m Bart Allen, and I’m an alcoholic.” No one laughs. “Jeez, tough crowd. Really though, my name is Bart, I’m fifteen, and I’ve got stage four metastatic thyroid cancer. So...that’s fun.”(*slams this fic down* Hey guys, guess who gave Bart Allen CANCER.)





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [damthosefandoms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/damthosefandoms/gifts).

> HI GUYS, I GAVE MY BOY CANCER AREN'T YOU PROUD OF ME. 
> 
> For reals, this is based on an au that Julie and I came up with way back, which is actually sorta connected to my GSA au? It's like an au of that au, if that makes any sense at all. I've been working on this for like a month that way it would be finished by Julie's birthday today, so yeah. HAPPY BIRTHDAY JULIE!!!!! <3
> 
> Oh, and in case you didn't read the tags: 
> 
> NEITHER BART NOR JAIME DIES IN THIS STORY. OR ANY OTHER BELOVED MAIN CHARACTERS FOR THAT MATTER BECAUSE I HAVE ATTACHMENT ISSUES.

Bart doesn’t know what he’s doing here.  
  
This makes the fourth meeting he’s been forced to attend, and frankly? He doesn’t see the appeal. Because ...well, come on. A _ support group? _ Why not just toss the poor guy a self-care pamphlet and call it a day? It would be a hell of a lot faster.  
  
According to Iris, Bart is “depressed” and needs to step out of his “comfort zone,” whatever that is. And, somehow, her solution to his so-called depression was to sign him up for some support group at the rec center, designed to help troubled teens navigate their sad, angsty lives. Yippee.  
  
As if it isn’t bad enough that Iris is making him start school the next day for the very same reason.  
  
_"You’ve been homeschooled forever, honey. Don’t you think it’s time you got out there and experienced a real school? Made some friends?” _  
  
Because what better solution to death row than being thrown into a sea of healthy teenagers?  
  
Bart doesn’t know how to tell her that compared to the cancer in his lungs, depression would be a walk in the park. He’d _ gladly _ take a few sad episodes over an early expiration date any day of the week.  
  
The woman who leads the group is named Dinah. She seems like the kind of lady who would have about thirty “Hang In There” posters in her house, but who also goes clubbing on weeknights if her blouse/fishnets combo is any indication.  
  
She’s asking one of the other Troubled Teens in the group how he’s doing. Bart is pretty sure the guy’s name is Tye? Tyler? Bart doesn’t really pay attention during the hour a week he spends in this musty, orange-carpeted room. Tye’s stepdad hits him or whatever, and he seems even less into the whole support group thing than Bart is.  
  
Which of course is why he’s the only person here Bart can stand.  
  
Tye’s got his knee pulled up as he lounges in his plastic chair, perfectly aloof. “I tried jumping on a bus to Houston last night, but a couple of cops found me and dragged me back home, so.” He shrugs. “On the bright side, they bought me a hot dog.”  
  
Dinah nods patiently. “And how does that make you feel?”  
  
Another shrug. “I like hot dogs. But if you mean the running away thing, then I feel pretty good about that part too. Maurice was pissed, and that’s always a win in my book.”  
  
See? What a cool dude.  
  
Once Tye sits down, the girl beside him launches right into her sob story of the week, and Bart’s attention flits away again. He starts counting the floor tiles, and after about fifty or so switches to counting his own breaths, which he can hear being echoed by the clunky oxygen tank which follows him the way fangirls follow Harry Styles.  
  
In the section of time between Bart picking at a loose thread in his jeans and pondering the difference between parsley and cilantro, someone new starts talking. Bart doesn’t know what it is that makes him look up. Maybe it’s the fact that unlike the dull depression-filled soliloquies Bart has become so accustomed to hearing within the confines of this circle, this voice is new, with a thick accent and a fresh energy.  
  
Bart’s eyes lift from the floor to land on New Guy. And immediately he does a double-take, because what do you know? New Guy might as well be nicknamed Hot Guy, because. Well. Just by looking at him, Bart can feel himself growing about sixty percent gayer.  
  
Hot Guy is a tall Hispanic boy with black hair. Unlike the emos and burnouts filling the remainder of the circle of plastic chairs, he looks neither sick nor depressed nor hooked on some drug cocktail. In fact, he looks almost cocky as he stands there, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets and answering what must have been another of Dinah’s intros. _ Tell us about yourself. _  
  
Ah, yes. What ails you, Mister Hottie?   
  
Hot Guy shrugs. “My name’s Jaime Reyes, I’m sixteen, and I’m doing swell. I actually just came here to support my buddy, Tye.” He pats Tye on the shoulder, and Tye flips him off with a flopped grin. “That, and Tye over here seems to think I’m—what was it you said? A schizophrenic? Something like that.”  
  
“You were talking to yourself yesterday,” Tye says.  
  
“Dude, I was rapping Hamilton.”  
  
There is a crease in Dinah’s forehead, as if she doesn’t quite know where to go from there. “Okay...thank you for sharing, Jaime.” Jaime bows and sits down, and Bart can’t help but roll his eyes. When they circle back, he finds that Jaime’s are trained right on him as well.  
  
He looks curious, and for a second Bart jolts a little inside. Until he’s reminded that, _ duh, _ he’s got a freaking oxygen cannula and is as sickly pale as a sickly pale person can get. Jaime must be wondering what illness poor Bart Allen is dying from, and it’s that knowledge that has Bart turning away.  
  
Still. When he risks another glance, Jaime hasn’t stopped staring.  
  
Eventually Bart’s turn to introduce himself to the group rolls around, and he withholds a sigh. He rises from his chair, ignoring the ever-present exhaustion that creeps in when he does. Such is the life of a human whose lungs don’t know how to be lungs.  
  
“Hi, everyone. I’m Bart Allen, and I’m an alcoholic.” No one laughs. “Jeez, tough crowd. Really though, my name is Bart, I’m fifteen, and I’ve got stage four metastatic thyroid cancer. So...that’s fun.” He doesn’t check for Jaime’s reaction and goes to sit down again when Dinah speaks up.  
  
“Is there anything else you’d like to add, Bart?”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
And Dinah gives him that Look. The one that means she’s not going to stop prodding until she succeeds and gets him to “open up,” or whatever it is she seeks from him. “Anything you want. The floor is yours, and we’re all here to listen. Thoughts on your condition, coping strategies you’d like to share with the rest of the group, hope for the future…”  
  
Bart can’t help the snort that bursts from him. “The future? Really?” She raises her eyebrows like it isn’t obvious. “I’ve been dying since I was five. I’m like that can of Crisco you keep in the back of the pantry and never get rid of even though it already expired two years ago.”  
  
Dinah sits forward in her seat. “So you’re telling me you have _ no _ dreams whatsoever? _ Nothing _ to hope for?”  
  
Bart shrugs. “I plan on having a tuna fish sandwich when I get home.” That one gets a chuckle from a few kids. “But other than that, nope.”  
  
Dinah’s frown deepens and she opens her mouth, most likely for the purpose of spouting one of her famous, “The future is bright and shiny and hope can cure any illness and yadda yadda yadda” lines. However, someone else beats her to the punch.  
  
“What about the present?”  
  
Bart turns to his right where Jaime’s got his hand raised. “What?”  
  
Jaime’s daring smile doesn’t falter. “What are your hopes for the present? Like, right this very second.”  
  
Bart stares at him. “I don’t think that’s a thing.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because the literal _ definition _ of hope entails expecting something in the future. You can’t hope for something that’s already happening.”  
  
Jaime raises an eyebrow, grin stretching. “I sure hope you don’t mean that.”  
  
And Bart...blinks. After a second, he coughs out a laugh. “Wow. Okay. Fine, you win.”  
  
Which incites Dinah into her weekly hope lecture, but Bart’s already tuning her out. For the rest of the time Support Group drags on, Jaime continues to stare at Bart. It’s no longer curiosity so much as a game now, and Bart finds himself staring back in challenge. They do this for the rest of the hour, and Bart can honestly say it’s the most interesting time he’s had in Support Group to date.  
  
After the group lets out, Bart waits outside for Wally to pick him up. As usual, he can expect his cousin to be at least fifteen minutes late, so he settles in on the grass below a tree for the wait.  
  
“Bart Allen,” he hears from behind him. Bart turns around and, lo and behold, it’s Jaime.  
  
“Yeah? And it’s just Bart.”  
  
Jaime sits next to him, and Bart self-consciously moves his oxygen tank out of the way. Jaime doesn’t seem to notice. “Hi.” He sticks out a hand. “I’m Jaime Reyes.”  
  
Bart shakes it. “I know. We got introduced, like, ten minutes ago.”  
  
“That was to a room full of random people. I wanted to meet you for real.” Bart doesn’t really know how to respond to that aside from, _ “That’s one hell of a line_. _ ” _ But Jaime’s eyes are so warm and his smile so genuine that Bart can’t stop himself from returning it.  
  
Jaime leans back against the tree and crosses one ankle over the other. “So, does Dinah wear those fishnets to every meeting? Or did she just happen to go clubbing last night before remembering she had to mediate for a bunch of teenagers?”  
  
Bart snickers. “I think she’s trying to invent a clothing version of the mullet. Business on the top, party on the bottom.”  
  
“Makes sense. I might be biased because this is the only support group meeting I’ve ever had the pleasure of attending, but it feels like I just escaped from a mausoleum. I can see why Tye needed the moral support.”  
  
That’s when they spot Tye exiting the building, enthralled in a conversation with a girl with different-colored eyes. After they part ways, he starts walking toward the tree Jaime and Bart are sitting against.  
  
“Speak of the devil,” Jaime murmurs to Bart before waving Tye over. “Dude, why didn’t you tell me this place was so dead? I could have spent my afternoon playing Smash.”  
  
Tye flicks a lock of hair over his shoulder, looking down at the two without sitting. “Maybe because that was the only way to make this whole thing bearable?” His eyes cut to Bart. “No offense.”  
  
“None taken. My mom forced me to come anyway.”  
  
A pickup truck pulls into the parking lot, which Tye catches over his shoulder. “Looks like Grandpa’s here.” To Jaime: “You need a ride?”  
  
Jaime mulls it over, eyes on Bart. “I think I’m going to stay here for a while. Get better acquainted with Mr. Allen over here.”  
  
“See you at school, then?”  
  
“You got it, _ ese.” _  
  
Tye walks off, leaving Bart and Jaime alone. Bart curls a blade of grass between his fingers, feeling all of a sudden like he’s burning beneath a spotlight. Even more so when he finds that Jaime is still looking right at him.  
  
“What are you staring at?”  
  
“You.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Jaime shrugs. “Because I like looking at attractive people.”  
  
And, well, would you look at that. Bart is suddenly very, very gay. He just knows he’s blushing, and so once again he averts his gaze because _ how the hell do you respond to something like that? _ Bart should have paid more attention last time Wally gave him advice on the fine art of flirting.  
  
Itching to do something with his hands, Bart pulls his carton of cigarettes out of his pocket and sticks one between his teeth. The expression on Jaime’s face is priceless.  
  
“What?” Bart says.  
  
Jaime’s eyebrows are so high they could stick a flag on the moon. “Um. I don’t exactly know how to tell you this, man, but I’m pretty sure smoking is the exact _ opposite _ of what you should do when you have lung cancer. Just saying.”  
  
Bart’s head catches up with the fact that of _ course _ Jaime would be horrified; he’s known Bart for less than an hour. He doesn’t know about Bart’s weird habits. Bart laughs, taking out the cigarette. “Oh my god, Jaime.” He ignores how nice the name sounds rolling over his tongue. “Do you think I’m insane?”  
  
“You could be.”  
  
“Dude, no. I don’t _ actually _ smoke them.” Now Jaime looks even more confused. “It’s a metaphor, get it? You put the killing thing in your mouth—” He grasps the cigarette with his lips to demonstrate. “—but you don’t give it the power to kill you.”  
  
Jaime slowly shakes his head, but there’s humor tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Well, shit. You’ve got a sick sense of humor, man.”  
  
“I like to think of it as ironic. I’m a kid who’s dying of lung cancer, even though I’ve never smoked once in my life.”  
  
And isn’t that just the sickest irony of all? There are thousands of people in the world who smoke two packs a day and live to the ripe old age of seniorhood, meanwhile lucky Bart Allen is getting taken out of the equation early despite having done not a single thing to deserve it. It’s funny, really. Fucking hilarious.  
  
Jaime just shakes his head again in wonder. “Aren’t you something else.”  
  
Bart flashes a smile. “Thanks.”  
  
Jaime looks like he wants to say something else, but a car horn shakes their attention. Idling by the curb is Wally’s red and silver Thunderbird, chipped paint job and all. Wally himself is leaning out of the window. “Get in loser, we’re going shopping!”  
  
Bart rolls his eyes. Leave it to Wally to embarrass him in front of the hottest boy in the history of hot boys. Brushing grass off his jeans, Bart stands and grabs the handle of his oxygen tank. “Well, I guess I’d better get going,” he says to Jaime. “See you around?”  
  
Either his imagination is screwing with him, or Jaime looks disappointed. He’s good at masking it, though. That smile and all. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Bart Allen.”  
  
Wally not-so-subtly gestures to Jaime as Bart crosses the sidewalk and opens the passenger side door. He wiggles his eyebrows. “New friend?” Bart flips him off.  
  
As they leave the parking lot, Bart doesn’t take his eyes off of Jaime’s slowly retreating figure until he’s long out of range. Thoroughly depressed, Bart twists forward again and slouches in his seat.  
  
“How was it?” Wally asks.  
  
“Would have been a lot better if you’d taken an extra five minutes at Taco Bell.”  
  
Wally laughs. “I’m guessing this has something to do with that guy you were talking to?”  
  
“What gave it away?”  
  
“I dunno. Maybe the fact that the eye contact between you two was about as R-rated as it gets?”  
  
Bart elbows him in the side. “Gross. Stop making jokes, you just ruined my whole life. I’m going to die alone now.”  
  
“What a drama queen. You’ll see him next week, right?”  
  
“Wrong. He was only here for the one session, which means I’ll never see him again. He’s going to forget all about me, and so my one chance at true love was squandered by you and the fact that you chose _ today _ of all days to pick me up on time.”  
  
“Artemis had to go home early. Sue me.”  
  
“I will. You destroyed my gay awakening.” Wally just laughs. “It’s true. I’m pretty sure the heartbreak alone is going to turn me straight, and it’ll be all your fault.”  
  
Wally waves a hand. “Stop whining. You should count yourself lucky, you know. If I were Barry picking you up, you wouldn’t hear the end of it. There would be wedding invitations by dinnertime.”  
  
Bart just turns back to the window, propping his chin on his hand and tuning out Wally’s voice.  
  
_ Goodbye forever, Jaime Reyes. _  


* * *

  
  
From the day Iris announced she had signed Bart up for a support group, Wally knew right away that he was going to be the one stuck chauffeuring Bart to and fro. Unlike Barry and Iris, he didn’t have a job to escape to on weekends. So, was it surprising when Iris volunteered his services for the cause? No. Was it inconvenient? _ Hell _ yes.  
  
Prior to the new arrangement, Sundays had been reserved exclusively for going to Dick’s house and watching romcoms with him and Roy all afternoon. A noble and manly activity.  
  
Needless to say, having to factor in driving to the community center and back threw a wrench into those plans. Yes, it took little to no brain power to plan around it, and sure Wally loves having an excuse to hang out with Artemis for the free hour, but still. It’s the principle of the thing.  
  
…  
  
Oh, who is he kidding. Wally secretly likes being Bart’s unofficial chauffeur. Even if most of the time it’s just sitting in silence with the occasional Big Mac from the drive-thru, Wally is unapologetic about taking whatever time with Bart he can get at this point.  
  
What with college and The Future looming over Wally’s head, he knows that his time with Bart is limited. And that’s not even factoring in Bart’s…  
  
Whatever. You get the point.  
  
Wally doesn’t talk about it much. Or think about it. Or _ think _ about thinking about it. As far as he’s concerned, Bart is fine. He’s fine. Logically, he knows what happens when you get diagnosed with terminal cancer. With terminal _ anything. _  
  
But it’s like imagining if your house burned down. You mentally plan what you would do: how you’d escape, what stuff you’d save and what you’d leave. You understand the possibility and plan accordingly.  
  
But it never feels _solid_—and maybe that’s a good thing _ . _ Maybe because you don’t _ want _ to think about your whole life burning down, the idea alone making the beginnings of pain curdle deep in your belly.  
  
No one wants to fantasize tragedy.  
  
Wally’s hands tighten on the steering wheel just thinking about it. It’s a flicker of knowledge—a flash of realism—and so he squashes it down before it can rise and infect his mind with images of hospitals and cemeteries and headstones.  
  
Because it’s not real.  
  
Out of sight, out of mind.  
  
The Allen family’s lives first started splintering to pieces in early autumn. Wally was eight years old, and Bart was five. Five years old—practically a baby.  
  
It was a warm Saturday afternoon, and the boys were playing outside while Iris made dinner. She kept an eye on them through the kitchen window. Wally waved at her every time he ran past.  
  
As usual, Bart and Wally were racing across the backyard. Wally used to be in love with the feeling of dry grass and leaves crunching under his sneakers as he sprinted, flying through the air like a bird taking flight. And Bart loved it even more.  
  
For as long as anyone could remember, Bart had always been a runner. Like Barry, like Wally, speed was in his blood, and that only became clearer when Bart quickly grew to be even faster than Wally. Not that Wally would ever admit it at the time.  
  
Bart won by an inch, his hand slapping the fence a second before Wally’s. “No fair!” Wally protested, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead. “You cheated!”  
  
Bart heaved for breath, doubled over and panting, but grinning a gap-toothed smile. “You’re just...just jealous—” he managed to get out. He coughed. “I’m the...the fastest kid in the whole…” He coughed again, this time deep and hacking, and Wally’s heart stopped when Bart collapsed onto the ground.  
  
Wally remembers calling for Iris in a blind panic, rushing to Bart and finding him struggling to breathe, grabbing at his chest. Being a kid himself, Wally didn’t know what to do. In the half-minute between Bart collapsing and Iris running outside, Wally remembers thinking that this was it, Bart was dying.  
  
It was one of the most terrifying moments of Wally’s life—not knowing what was happening, what was wrong with Bart, why racing was suddenly killing his little cousin. On the way to the hospital, Wally wouldn’t stop crying.  
  
And it only got worse from there.  
  
His little kid brain didn’t understand much at the time. He didn’t know why the word “cancer” made Iris cry, or why Bart was in the hospital for so long after that. Wally just played with his dinosaurs and tried not to look at all the tubes and wires attached to his cousin’s frail body.  
  
For the months Bart was stuck in his hospital room—the first of many—Wally had done whatever he could to keep Bart happy. Making jokes at every opportunity, even when they were terrible. Making Barry drive him to the store so he could buy Spongebob band-aids to make Bart feel better when he had to get shots.  
  
Because whenever Bart smiled, Wally felt just a little bit better. Like maybe Bart would be okay. Maybe this was all just a bad dream, and at any minute Wally would wake up and Bart would be healthy.  
  
To be honest, Wally doesn’t know if Bart has any memories of being healthy way back when, and he’s too chicken to ask. Part of him hopes not. It would only be sadder if Bart remembers what it’s like to not be sick, and knows that he can never have that again.  
  
For the second time in as many minutes, Wally pushes the memories and anxieties from his mind. Thinking too hard will only make it hurt worse, so he goes back to his usual strategy: ignore the oxygen tank and the pale skin. Ignore anything having to do with terminal cancer. Pretend Bart is a perfectly healthy teenager, because the alternative is what keeps Wally awake, night after night, knowing that one day he’s going to wake up and Bart won’t be there anymore.  
  
But right now isn’t the time to think about that. Or ever, for that matter.  
  
They don’t live far from the community center, so they get home in no time. The Allen house is warm and inviting—always has been. Its exterior is a pale yellow with an old-fashioned porch and flowers growing in the front yard. When they were kids, Bart and Wally used to spend hours swinging from the branches of the large oak tree which grows just outside Wally’s bedroom window.  
  
As they walk up the driveway, Bart is no less sullen than he was in the car. Whatever moment he shared with that boy from the group, he clearly would much rather be there than here.  
  
They go inside and Wally tosses his keys onto the counter beside the front door. “We’re home,” he announces. Barry’s head pops out from the living room.  
  
“Hey, boys. How was it?” He’s got his reading glasses on, which indicates he’s doing some kind of work thing. He claims they make him feel smarter.  
  
“Good,” Bart says, even though his grumpy expression suggests he’s feeling anything _ but _ good right now.  
  
“Well, your Grandpa Jay called earlier. Joan is still in the hospital, but she isn’t getting any worse at the moment, which is a good thing.”  
  
Bart nods, a bit absently. “Crash. Let me know if he calls again. I’m gonna take a nap.” Without further comment, he goes down the hallway to his room. He used to live upstairs in the room next to Wally’s, but a few years after his diagnosis he kept getting winded every time he had to climb the stairs to his room, so he switched with Barry and Iris.  
  
Barry frowns after his retreating back. “Someone’s crabby.” He recovers quickly and smiles expectantly at Wally. “Did Stanford get back to you yet?” He’s been asking this since the day Wally informed him and Iris that he’d applied.  
  
“Not yet.” He goes to the kitchen and grabs a soda from the fridge.  
  
“Don’t worry, kid. Everyone knows you’re going to get in. Did Artemis get hers yet?”  
  
“Two days ago. She got in.” The can cracks open with a hiss.  
  
Barry’s face lights up. “That’s great! Next time you see her, tell her I said congrats.”  
  
Artemis and Wally have been dating for two years now. Since senior year began, it had always been an unspoken agreement that wherever they went to college, they were going together. No matter what.  
  
Their dream was Stanford, and that hasn’t changed. Should they both get accepted, they already have plans to rent an apartment and live together in California, just the two of them. They’ll get a dog. Find jobs in the area. Have a _ life _ together.  
  
Wally can’t wait. He checks the mailbox every day after school, eager to see that envelope. To open it and read the classic, “ _ We are pleased to inform you…” _ Should he get in, he’s going to be ecstatic.  
  
But at the same time, it’s bittersweet to think about leaving his family behind. Trading one’s past for their future is never an easy decision, even if Wally knows it will only be a matter of distance. But with Bart so sick…  
  
Nope. Not thinking about that now.  
  
The letter hasn’t arrived yet, which means that for now, Wally doesn’t have to come to terms with anything. He’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it.  
  
And yes, Wally knows he’s in denial about the whole “Bart dying” thing, but guess what? He’s comfortable with that.  


* * *

  
  
As soon as he gets to his room, Bart flops onto the bed and takes out his phone. He barely has to look at the screen as he presses the pad of his thumb onto the familiar name in his contacts and puts it to his ear.  
  
It rings only once before Tim answers. As per the usual. “Hey, man.”  
  
“Hey.” Bart lets the phone drop onto his pillow, just beside his ear so he can still hear Tim. He folds his arms behind his head. “You know when you lowkey want to buy a bus ticket to Canada and become a professional maple syrup farmer and never deal with anything ever again?”  
  
Tim thinks it over. “Can’t say that I have. Sounds fun, though,” he says, and Bart huffs a laugh. (Huffing for him is little more than a weak sigh, but the message is all the same.) “How was support group? That was today, right?”  
  
“Yes, and it makes me want to strangle myself with my own oxygen tubes every time I go.”  
  
“Ouch. That bad?”  
  
“It gets worse.” He pauses, letting the tension build. “I met someone.”  
  
Tim is quiet for a second. “Like...a friend?”  
  
“Worse.”  
  
“If it was an asshole I’d be happy to go with you next time and beat them up for you.”  
  
“Worse,” Bart said again. “He was _ amazing.” _ Amazing and clever and easy to talk to and—  
  
“In what universe is that worse than a mortal enemy?” There is the faint clacking of computer keys on the other end, which Bart takes to mean that Tim is multitasking on his laptop while they talk.  
  
_ “Because,” _ Bart whines. He rolls onto his side, getting his tubes all tangled in the process. “I didn’t get his number and he’s most likely not going to be at another meeting, so I’ll never see him again. It’s like Cinderella, but I don’t even get a shoe to keep as a souvenir.”  
  
“What was his name?”  
  
“Jaime. Jaime Reyes. And his middle name was probable Hottie Supreme.” He hears the clacking get louder and sits up. “Wait, what are you doing?”  
  
“Looking him up,” Tim replies, like it’s a perfectly normal thing for a best friend to do. “I’m going to track him down and find out where he lives.”  
  
Panic shoots up in Bart’s veins like an adrenaline shot. “Tim. Seriously, stop. I’m begging you.”  
  
Slowly, the clacking stops. “I thought you wanted to see him again? Unless I’m getting some very inaccurate signals here.”  
  
Bart rolls his eyes. “In a perfect world, yes, of course I want to find him. But I can’t _ actually _ do it.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Well for one, we don’t even know if he likes guys.”  
  
“A minor detail.”  
  
“And for another thing, it’s not like it’ll actually _ go _ anywhere.”  
  
“You don’t know that.”  
  
Bart coughs pointedly.  
  
“You don’t need lungs to love.”  
  
“I’m pretty sure it’s considered bullying to make a person like you and then die on them right after.”  
  
Tim inhales sharply. “You know I don’t like it when you talk like that.” His voice is softer, edgier because Bart _ knows _ Tim isn’t big on talking about death. Especially Bart’s death.  
  
Bart shrugs even though Tim can’t see it. “It’s true.”  
  
The click of a laptop closing. “So if you don’t want to find him, then why did you call me?”  
  
“Wanted to add another thing to the List.”  
  
He knows he’s captured Tim’s attention when he makes that telltale hum he does when he’s interested in something. “Intriguing. Do tell.”  
  
“So, get this: get nominated for Queer Eye.”  
  
“Really? Why?”  
  
“You kidding? Why _ not?” _ As he talks, Bart’s idly drawing swirls on the back of his hand with a pen he found on his nightstand.  
  
“Because in order to get nominated, you would have to be unfashionable and bad at taking care of yourself. I think if someone pointed out my flaws to my face I would start crying instantly.”  
  
“That’s just because you’re weaker than I am. Besides, I could _ totally _ qualify if I wanted to. All I’d have to do is stop cutting my hair, only wear Wally’s hand-me-downs, and eat nothing but Ramen for a month straight.”  
  
Tim snorts. “Fine, I’ll add it to the list. But I get to be the one who nominates you.”  
  
“Deal.”  
  
Bart and Tim first created the List when they were ten. Back then it only had a handful of goals on it, but it’s grown dramatically since then. Now, additions such as_swim with sharks _ and _ get a _ <strike>_ girlfriend _</strike> _ boyfriend _ are on there as well. He crossed off _ Go to Disneyworld _ three years ago when he spent his Wish on a week-long vacation in Orlando, which he has no regrets about whatsoever.  
  
Bart came to the conclusion shortly after coming to terms with his own mortality than every dying person needed a bucket list, because how else do you get stuff done? Thus, the List was written into existence during one of Dick and Wally’s frequent preteen playdates, which was how Tim and Bart had met in the first place. As younger sibling and cousin, they were forced to hang out every time Wally and Dick did. Such sparked a long and beautiful friendship.  
  
Tim and Bart don’t often talk about Bart’s condition. As far as Tim is concerned, Bart is just another teenager. Just his best friend in the whole world. And Bart has no qualms when it comes to keeping it that way, even if it’s a little selfish in hindsight to encourage Tim’s avoidance of a tragically _ un_avoidable subject.  
  
Tim’s birth parents are dead, and it took a long time for him to recover from that kind of loss. So it’s no wonder why he resides in even more denial about Bart’s death than Wally. And when Bart is with him, he finds himself drifting toward the same mindset—if only temporarily. Neither of them wants to think about the fact that Tim is going to have to lose Bart as well.  
  
And yet, they have the Bucket List. It’s a five-page Google Doc they created, which Tim adds onto every time Bart comes up with a new addition. So far, he hasn’t so much as scratched the surface of achieving all he wants to.  
  
He knows logically that there is no way in hell he will ever meet Obama or go to the Bahamas, but still he keeps them on there for whatever reason. Certainly not because of hope. Maybe because it’s nice to dream up the impossible.  
  
Regardless, Tim is always up for adding whatever crazy idea Bart has. Says it’s because the more that’s on the list, the longer Bart will have to stay alive in order to complete it all. As unrealistic a notion as that is, Bart never tries to deter his thinking.  
  
“Should I put making out with this Jaime guy on the list too?” Tim asks, a snicker poorly hidden in his voice.  
  
“Only if you want to wake up one morning with spiders in your oatmeal.”  


* * *

  
  
The next morning, Bart trudges out from his bedroom with his oxygen tank gripped in one hand and his backpack in the other. Wally is already at the kitchen table, wolfing down eggs like he’s a black hole and the eggs are the unfortunate space explorers who were unlucky enough to get sucked in.  
  
Naturally, Bart makes a point of eating his own breakfast even faster. Because why not.  
  
It’s not long before Iris comes downstairs dressed in her usual _ I’m-a-reporter-so-give-me-the-deets _ pantsuit and high ponytail. She kisses Wally and Bart on the cheek as she crosses the kitchen to the coffee maker on the counter.  
  
“First day of school, huh?” she says to Bart as she pours herself a cup. “You excited?”  
  
“Are polar bears excited about climate change?”  
  
“We’ve talked about this, honey. It’ll be good for you. And I’m tired of seeing you lock yourself in your room all day. It’s not healthy.”  
  
Bart sticks up a finger. “One: nothing about me is healthy, so ha. And two: sometimes I’m in the living room.”  
  
Iris arches an eyebrow. “Wow, one whole room change. Come on, Bart, don’t you want to get outside and experience the outside world? Make some friends?”  
  
“I’ve got Tim, Wally, and you guys. That’s already four whole friends. I don’t know how I can fit any more into my agenda.”  
  
Iris levels him with a serious look. “Just _try _ the school thing, okay? For me. If you hate it around a few weeks, then we can talk about it, but I want you to at least give it a shot. Okay?” She ruffles his hair.  
  
“Yeah, yeah.” He fixes his hair. “You’re lucky I’m such an agreeable person. Remember that next time I want to get a tattoo and you say no.”  
  
A quarter to seven and Wally is ushering Bart out the door, complaining that all of the good parking spots will be stolen if they don’t make it to school on time. Read as: _ Assholes like to steal handicapped spots and you’re not going to be able to walk across the parking lot like everyone else. _  
  
Aside from the thick dread coating his insides, Bart feels somewhat good today. Yes, his lungs burn at the thought of walking from class to class, but he’s got a pass for that, and at least Tim is in most of his classes. Wally also arranged it so that he would cross paths with Bart at various times in the day to check on him, and that’s about relieving as relief gets.  
  
Besides. It’s just high school, right? Sure, Bart knows only two people there and is joining smack dab in the middle of the school year, but compared to cancer, this will be a walk in the park. Maybe Iris was right. Maybe this will be good for him.  
  
He can do this. 

* * *

He can’t do this.  
  
School is terrible. School is_horrible. _ School is the worst thing humanity has ever invented, and Bart deserves a refund for his trouble.  
  
It’s not the endless hallways that exhaust Bart as much as they frustrate him. It’s not the fact that he has no idea what is going on in his classes, being the new kid and all. It’s not even the creaky elevator that takes forever to move to the next floor. No, _ those _ Bart can handle.  
  
It’s the stares that get to him.  
  
You’d think nobody in that building had seen a sick person before. Pitying looks from teachers, curious side-eyes from classmates, uncomfortable glances from those who don’t know whether or not it would be rude to ask what’s wrong with him. (Spoiler alert: _ it’s rude.) _  
  
Wondering what happened, what illness he has, whether or not he’s dying—everyone is brimming with questions, but not one of them is courageous enough to ask. Bart’s almost smug that they’re all just going to have to live with those perpetual question marks where Bart’s face exists in their minds.  
  
Some blonde girl named Madison raised her hand fourth period and asked the teacher if Bart’s cancer was contagious. No joke. She actually said those words. (“Ugh, Madison is the worst,” Wally had said when they met up afterward. “One of these days I am going to clamp her face in a George Foreman grill.”)  
  
For lunch, Bart is lucky enough to share the period with Tim, who texted him earlier and said he’ll be skipping today due to getting caught up in the computer lab. Lovely.  
  
Bart pretends he can’t feel eyes on him as he goes to one of the empty lunch tables. People always stare, so he’s gotten used to it by now. That doesn’t mean he’s entirely comfortable with it.  
  
He resigns himself to eating his sandwich in solitude and dicking around on his phone all period, when something strangely familiar across the room catches his eye. He tears his attention away from Candy Crush to see what it is, and—  
  
Bart freezes. Blinks.  
  
Because no _ way_. That can’t be him. It’s impossible.  
  
But he can’t deny the familiarity of that hair. Those features. That hoodie. And if Bart’s heart wasn’t pounding before then it sure is now, because _ Jaime Reyes. _ Is in _ Bart’s school. _  
  
It’s insane. It’s the most improbable coincidence in the universe. And yet there he is, sitting across from Support Group Tye at a lunch table and telling some elaborate and apparently funny story, seeing as they both burst into laughter a second later.  
  
It’s as though Fate is personally handing Bart a silver platter: _ Sucky first day at school? Aw, that’s okay, sport. Here, will this state-of-the-art beautiful boy make you feel better? _  
  
What now? Does Bart go over and say hi? Does he pretend not to notice and hope that Jaime approaches him first? Does he leave and eat his lunch in the computer lab with Tim every day for as long as he lives?  
  
His own words from the night before are telling him what he knows is true; that he should cut his losses now and accept that the best he can hope for with Jaime is a polite acquaintance. Before he gets attached and makes the situation _ way _ more difficult than it needs to be.  
  
Bart meant what he told Tim last night. Sure, Jaime is ridiculously pretty and interesting, but his role in Bart’s life is to stay locked up in his mental box of _ What If_s. That’s all.  
  
And yet, even as his conscience deals out this very wise and realistic advice, Bart’s feet appear to have gone rogue. For as soon as Tye gets up and goes to the vending machine, Bart finds himself walking over to Jaime’s table. Like an idiot.  
  
It’s once he’s halfway across the cafeteria that Bart realizes he has no plan. So, foolishly, he lets his impulses take the wheel. Why not? It’s not like he has much to lose at this point anyway.  
  
Jaime’s head is down and his eyes are locked on his phone when Bart approaches, taking the seat Tye had been sitting in and startling Jaime into looking up. His eyes widen as they take in Bart in all his tumor-ridden glory.  
  
Bart reaches across the table and takes Jaime’s bag of Chicken Whizees. “Hi. I’m terminally ill, so you need to let me have these.” And pops a handful into his mouth.  
  
Jaime looks like he can’t believe his eyes. “Bart Allen,” he says, lips twisting into a smile at the end.  
  
“Just Bart, remember? And if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were stalking me.”  
  
“What are you doing here?”  
  
Bart laughs. “It’s a school, dude.”  
  
“No, I mean…” Jaime shakes his head. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. Unless I got really unobservant all of a sudden.”  
  
“First day, actually. I used to be homeschooled, but my mom thought it would be a good idea for me to be around people my own age or whatever. Why she assumed that I have no idea, but...yeah.” He trails off awkwardly at the end, knowing he just overshared what was more than a healthy amount.  
  
Jaime folds his arms on the table, watching Bart amusedly. “Pretty lucky coincidence. So how are you liking high school so far?”  
  
“It’s crowded and smells terrible.”  
  
“Yeah, that sounds about accurate.” He snatches his Chicken Whizees back. “Then again, you’re here now, so I think it just got about eighty percent better as far as I’m concerned.”  
  
Bart raises an eyebrow. “Only eighty percent? That’s insulting.”  
  
“Well, you did steal my snacks.”  
  
Bart sits back, crossing his arms. “Fair. In that case, what do you say I buy you another bag to make up for it?” While his instincts scream: _ Abort, abort, abort, this is a bad idea, _ the rest of him is perfectly happy where he is. Because he’s a fool. And because Jaime is too pretty to avoid.  
  
“Sounds like a deal, _ hermano.” _

* * *

  
  
When the bell rings, Bart prepares himself to say goodbye to Jaime and go on his merry way to class. Instead, however, he stops short in his plans when Jaime slings his backpack over one shoulder before grabbing Bart’s and doing the same.  
  
“What class do you have next?” he asks.  
  
Bart’s mouth is suddenly very, very dry. “Uh, physics. East wing.”  
  
“Sweet. That’s not too far from where I’m going. Lead the way, Mr. Allen.”  
  
Bart prepares himself to push his lungs to the limit trying to keep up with Jaime, but as they walk down the hallway, Jaime keeps pace with Bart perfectly. Even though his legs are far longer and he doesn’t have crap lungs slowing him down, he goes Bart’s speed without comment.  
  
They talk the whole way to class, which is directly across the building. Jaime asks about how Bart’s liking Happy Harbor High, what it was like to be homeschooled, why he’s being forced to endure public school now.  
  
And once Bart runs out of things to say, he starts asking Jaime questions as well. He learns that Jaime has a little sister named Milagro, and that Jaime and Tye have been best friends since elementary school. That he has a fear of clowns and his favorite color is blue.  
  
“Wait,” Bart says at one point. “So if you could time travel _ anywhere _ in the _ entire timeline of the universe, _ you would skip to your future wedding day?”  
  
Jaime shrugs. “What’s wrong with that? It’s a classic.”  
  
“It’s stupid. If it were me, I would go _ back _ in time that way I can fix whatever needs fixing and give myself a better present.”  
  
“That’s cheating, though.”  
  
“Only if life’s a game.”  
  
They are two turns away from Bart’s classroom when that telltale burn starts to build in Bart’s chest. He’s not used to walking or talking for so long, and he gets light headed by it all in no time. A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead. He slows to a halt, bracing a hand on the wall to steady himself as his head swims.  
  
Jaime stops with him. “Bart? Are you okay?”  
  
Bart nods, but he’s panting. “Yeah, sorry, just...just need a sec.” _ Fuck _ his chest hurts. Who knew that walking around all day with lungs made out of tissue paper can be so uncomfortable?  
  
He lowers himself to the floor, trying to catch his breath. He can feel eyes on him from the stragglers on their way to class, but he pays them no attention. Now with his chest on fire the way it is. Jaime crouches down beside him, but the bell rings and Bart pushes on his shoulder.  
  
“I’m...fine. Go to...Go to class.” With every passing second, breathing gets just a bit easier. Attacks like this have happened more than enough over time that they’re routine by now. All Bart has to do is ride it out until he can catch his breath and he’s in the clear.  
  
Jaime doesn’t listen to Bart’s warning. Instead he sits with his back to the wall, watching Bart with worry-laced eyes. He doesn’t speak. Just sits and waits patiently for the gasps to turn into slow breaths, waits until Bart’s lungs manage to get with the program and even themselves out.  
  
And they do, eventually. Another minute, and Bart is able to draw in a full breath and hold it before exhaling slowly. His gaze cuts over to Jaime. “You’re gonna be late, y’know.”  
  
“So are you.”  
  
Bart gestures to all of himself. “Cancer? I’m like a walking hall pass.”  
  
Jaime watches him for a little while longer, searching for any sign he’s going to keel over. “You think you’re good to keep going?”  
  
Bart nods, and Jaime stands up before holding a hand out to Bart, who takes it and lets himself be pulled up. Jaime walks him the rest of the way to class. They go slower this time, and it takes twice as long as it should, but at least Bart’s lungs hold out this time.  
  
“Sorry I made you late,” Bart says.  
  
Jaime shrugs it off. “If I had to choose between doing math and spending time with you, I think I’d have to pick you.”  
  
It takes all of Bart’s willpower not to blush, and even then he’s not so sure he succeeds. They’re outside his classroom now. Bart faces Jaime, trying not to sound hopeful when he says, “I’ll see you later?”  
  
Jaime winks and hands him his backpack. “You got it, _ ese.” _  


* * *

  
  
After Bart’s final class of the day, he’s surprised to find Jaime leaning against the wall right outside his classroom. He’s holding a skateboard this time and grins when Bart approaches.  
  
“When I said ‘see you later,’ I figured it would be tomorrow. Or the day after,” Bart says.   
  
“Couldn’t wait that long,” Jaime replies, as if that’s a perfectly reasonable thing to say to a person whom you’ve only met the day before. “How was your first day?”  
  
“Good, I guess.” When Jaime reaches for his backpack again, Bart says, “I can hold my own bag, you know.”  
  
“I know you can. Maybe I’m just being a gentleman.” And that playful smile is so damn enticing that Bart hands over the backpack without another protest. Because he’s weak. And devastatingly gay.  
  
The two of them walk outside, Jaime once again keeping perfect pace with Bart. Wally said earlier that he would meet Bart by the bench next to the tennis courts, so that’s where they go. As they sit, Jaime rolls his skateboard back and forth on the sidewalk with his foot.  
  
“So,” he says. “What’s your story?”  
  
“Um. I was diagnosed when I was five, and—”  
  
Jaime shakes his head. “No, not your cancer story. I meant your real story.” At Bart’s confusion, he elaborates, “You know. Hobbies, hopes and dreams, skeletons in the closet.”  
  
Bart hesitates. “I don’t know. I like video games, I guess. And I used to want to be a track star, but...well, you get the idea.”  
  
“Ah, of course. What was it you compared it to? A can of Crisco?”  
  
Bart rolls his eyes. “You’re the one who asked.”  
  
“How about your family? What are they like?”  
  
“You ask a lot of questions.”  
  
“I’m a curious person.”  
  
Bart snorts, but answers. “My parents are normal. Dad’s a CSI and Mom’s a reporter. My cousin is a senior here and a huge nerd.”  
  
“Is that the one who drove you home yesterday?” Bart nods. “I thought he was your brother.”  
  
This isn’t the first time someone has said this to Bart, and he knows it won’t be the last. “He might as well be. His home life was bad as a kid because my uncle was an abusive asshole, so Wally came to live with us when he was seven, and that’s about it.”  
  
“Hardcore.”  
  
“Right? Most of the time he’s just annoying, though.” It’s at this moment when he spots two figures over Jaime’s shoulder, and he clicks his tongue. “Speak of the devil.” Jaime follows his eyeline.  
  
Against the brick wall of the school building Wally and Artemis stand in one of the shadowed areas, their bodies pressed close together. As in, _ extremely _ close together. As in, it looks more as though they’re sucking out each others’ souls rather than making out. Which they are. Very fervently.  
  
Bart wrinkles his nose. Ever since they got together two New Year’s ago, Wally and Artemis have been in love in the most disgusting of ways. The small pang of jealousy at their sweet companionship gets squashed on the daily by Bart’s internal pleads that they show some consideration and at least keep the face-sucking to a minimum when in public.  
  
Jaime cocks his head to the side. “I think he’s hurting her boob. You think we should warn them?”  
  
“Nah, they don’t care. You won’t _ believe _ how exhausting it is living with one of them. There’s no escape, I tell you.”  
  
Between kisses, the couple keeps whispering the same word over and over again.  
  
“Always,” Wally murmurs as he pecks Artemis on the nose.  
  
“Always,” she sighs back, tangling her fingers in his hair.  
  
See? Disgusting.  
  
“What’s with the ‘always’ thing?” Jaime asks.  
  
Bart waves a hand. “That’s just their thing. Like, they’re _ always _ going to love each other and _ always _ be there no matter what. It’s dumb, but then again, so is my cousin, so…”  
  
Jaime shrugs. “Fair enough.” He turns away from the love-fest back to Bart, who is taking out a cigarette. “So. Can I have your number?”  
  
Were Bart actually smoking, he would have choked. “What?”  
  
“Your number. Or you can have mine, if that’s better for you. I’m not picky.”  
  
Bart stares at him. “Why?”  
  
“Because I like talking to you. And I’ll take as much of that as I can get.”  
  
Inside, Bart is freaking out. Completely. He’s bouncing off walls and celebrating because _ Jaime wants his number. _  
  
On the outside, though? He’s cool. Totally cool. Or at least he hopes he is as he holds out his hand. “Have you got a Sharpie?”  
  
Mouth splitting into a grin, Jaime reaches into his backpack and pulls out a thick, black Sharpie. He hands it to Bart, who yanks Jaime’s arm closer and uncaps the marker with his teeth. He scribbles his cell phone number across Jaime’s forearm, leaving no room for skin or subtlety.  
  
When he finishes, he snaps the cap back on and gives it back. “Now at least you won’t forget it.”  
  
Jaime’s eyes are dazzling. “Thanks. I’ll call you later.”  
  
“Crash.”  
  
Jaime’s forehead wrinkles. “Crash?”  
  
“Precisely.” Wally and Artemis are now walking hand-in-hand towards the car across the lot, so he turns back to Jaime. “I have to go. See ya.” And, just to make Jaime blush, he winks.  
  
He walks out to the parking lot, waving his arm in the air so the pair sees him. And he tries to fight the smile that threatens to split his jaw in half because _ Jaime has his number now. _  
  
If that isn’t something to look forward to, Bart doesn’t know what is.  


* * *

  
  
“Someone’s peppy,” Iris comments when Bart enters the kitchen, Wally on his tail. They dropped Artemis off at Zatanna’s house on the way home. “Good first day?”  
  
Bart shrugs casually as he opens the fridge, but wiping the smile off of his face is near-impossible. Wally made sure to tease him about it thoroughly, which he has no regrets about whatsoever. “It was okay.”  
  
Barry chuckles. His eyes are lowered, focused on the vegetables he’s chopping for dinner. “Looks like it was a lot better than okay. I haven’t seen you smile like that in weeks. Made a friend, I’m guessing?”  
  
Bart grabs an apple. “You could say that.” He takes a bite. “I’m going to do some homework.” He goes to his room, an extra skip in his step, and when he’s gone Barry and Iris both turn to Wally.  
  
“What happened?” Iris asks.  
  
Wally shrugs. “He made a friend.” Because no _ way _ is he about to snitch on Bart’s new crush. Not when that kid is currently keeping the secret about the science project Wally’s been hiding in the garage for the past month.  
  
(It’s an automatic cupcake cannon, and it’s going to be _ amazing _ once he figures out how to make it work.)  
  
Barry sees right through him. “Must be a pretty good friend to have him happy about _ school, _ of all things.”  
  
Wally mimes zipping his lips shut and throws away the key. “Sorry, Uncle Barry. My lips are sealed.” He swipes a carrot from the cutting board and bites off a chunk. “Did I get any mail?”  
  
“That depends. Do I get details about Bart’s new crush?”  
  
“On the table,” Iris chimes in.  
  
Wally goes to retrieve the stack, rifling through until he finds the letter with his name on it. _ Stanford University, _ it reads on the front, and Wally slips it into his back pocket before his aunt and uncle can see.  
  
He hurries upstairs, taking the steps two at a time until he’s locked the door to his bedroom and finally has some privacy. He takes out the letter and slips a thumb under the seal, tearing it open.  
  
He takes out the paper inside, holds his breath, and reads the first line.  
  
_ Wally West, we are pleased to inform you of your acceptance to_—  
  
He crumples up the paper and shoves it underneath his mattress.  
  
Nope. Nope, nope, nope. He can’t let anyone find out about this. He can’t.  
  
For months this has been all Wally’s wanted, but now that he knows it’s happening? It’s like everything is hitting him right this very second that he’s going to be _ leaving. _ He and Artemis will be going miles away, leaving behind everything he knows. And yes, it’s an exciting prospect. The freedom of it. The adventure. It’s his dream.  
  
But Wally knows that a disease like Bart’s doesn’t simply go away with some new treatments and a few coins in the fountain. Wally knows that no matter what he wants, his time with Bart is limited and grows shorter with every day that passes. If he leaves now, he is going to regret it forever because when _ it _ happens, Wally doesn’t want to be all the way in California, leaving Barry and Iris alone and with no sons.  
  
No. He can’t leave. Not now. Not ever. Not when he knows he is soon going to be holding the small fragments of their family together with tape and glue.  
  
So Wally sits on his bed, right over the spot where he buried the letter, and makes his decision.  
  
He’s not going.  


* * *

  
  
Jaime hasn’t called yet. And, yeah, Bart knows it’s only been four hours. And they never agreed to talk at a certain time. And there was no _actual _ agreement to talk tonight anyway.  
  
Yet Bart can’t stop pacing the length of his room, waiting for the call. He paces until his shit lungs run out of air, and after that he sits on his bed, tapping his foot at jackrabbit speed.  
  
He checks his phone: no new messages.  
  
Checks it again a minute later: still nothing.  
  
A third time: something!  
  
Pizza Hut emailed him a coupon.  
  
But no calls. Or texts. Or carrier pigeons. Nothing. Zilch. Nada.  
  
Bart falls onto his back, tossing his phone to the foot of his bed. What is he doing? Bart set up rules for this sort of situation. Don’t get attached. Stay in your own lane. Find something better to do than pine for a boy you barely know.  
  
But Bart’s last two brain cells appear to have fled the building because here he is, doing exactly that. If he were watching this scenario play out from afar, he’d be laughing at himself for being so stupid. Jaime’s not going to call, and Bart should stop expecting him to anytime soon, because—  
  
Bart’s phone buzzes, and he dives to the end of the bed to retrieve it. The screen reflects an unknown number with Bart’s area code, and his heart all but stutters in his chest. He presses the talk button and puts it to his ear.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
“Bart Allen,” Jaime’s voice says, and Bart can _ hear _ the smile in his tone.  
  
“Jaime Reyes. That was fast.”  
  
“Yes it was. I decided I want to change my answer.”  
  
Bart waits, but no elaboration comes. “Answer...to what, exactly?”  
  
“The time travel thing. If you could go anywhere, where would you go? I changed my answer.”  
  
Bart crosses his legs and rests an elbow on his knee. “I’m listening.”  
  
“Travel to the day I die and watch my funeral.”  
  
“That is the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”  
  
Jaime gasps in offense. “It’s genius and you know it.”  
  
“It’s depressing. And useless. And...weird.”  
  
Jaime laughs. “Not the way I see it.”  
  
“Enlighten me, then.”  
  
“If you skip to the day you die, that means you can find out what happens throughout your entire life. You know how everything will turn out, and plus you’ll know that you’re basically immortal until then because you can’t die before your scheduled death date.”  
  
“Yeah, but what about the bad stuff? You’ll be stuck knowing all the shit that happens to you in your life.”  
  
“I can change it before it happens. Plus, I’ll know how the funeral goes and what my gravestone looks like.”  
  
Bart makes a face. “Why would you want to know that?”  
  
“Because once you die, that’s the last anyone ever sees of you. I want to make sure that I’m remembered the way I want to be.”  
  
Bart is silent for a while before he shakes his head. “That is the strangest thing you’ve ever said to me.”  
  
“In my defense, we’ve only known each other for two days.”  
  
“Technically one and a half. Not that I’m counting.”  
  
Jaime laughs. “No, of course not.”  
  
Bart reclines back against his pillows. “All right, follow-up question: If a version of you from the future came back in time and told you to kill your best friend, would you?”  
  
“In a heartbeat.” Bart laughs so hard tears form in the corners of his eyes and he has to catch his breath.  
  
They end up talking like that—stupid, pointless questions with even stupider and more pointless answers—until late into the nighttime. Not that Bart knows it until he happens to look at the alarm clock on his nightstand and sees a neon red _ 11:16 _ blinking back at him. “Oh my god. Dude, we’ve been talking for five hours.”  
  
Jaime chuckles after a moment in which Bart assumes he’s checking the time as well. “Shit, you’re right. I have to go to bed soon.”  
  
Bart yawns, all at once aware of how tired he is. Pesky brain and its need for slumber. “Yeah. Me too.”  
  
“Are you going to be in school tomorrow?”  
  
“Looks that way. You?”  
  
“I very well can’t pass up the opportunity to spend more time with you, now can I?”  
  
“I suppose that’s true.” Bart is smiling. He’s been smiling a lot today.  
  
“Then I guess I’ll see you then.”  
  
“Crash,” Bart says.  
  
“Crash,” Jaime says back.  
  
“Crash.”  
  
Jaime laughs, and it dwindles into a fond hum. “Maybe crash will be our always.”  
  
That shouldn’t make Bart’s heart flutter as much as it does. “Crash.”  


* * *

  
  
When he was a kid, Bart once read a book about a garden. This little girl lived in a big mansion filled with bustling activity, leaving no room for seclusion or respite from the oscillations of life. But when she was in the garden? Everything was quiet. She was content there—free to immerse herself in the comforting atmosphere and forget about her problems.  
  
Being with Jaime feels a little like that.  
  
It’s been over a week since that fateful meeting at Support Group, and with every day Bart can feel the bond between himself and Jaime become stronger. As much as he denies it and tries to pull away, he continuously finds himself being pulled back, and it leaves him filled with a lighter energy than he knew he could possess.  
  
Then Saturday afternoon comes around and puts an odd spin on things. Bart is just getting back from the arcade, where he and Tim raced on the motorcycles for three hours straight until the staff kicked them out. In the end, Bart won by fifty points, which he teased Tim about the entire way home.  
  
Everyone is gathered in the living room when Bart enters the house. Already that tips him off that something is wrong—they rarely have family meetings for a good reason. The dried tears on Iris’ face make his gut plummet even further because that can mean only two things: someone died, or someone is going to die. Both of which are terrible options.  
  
“What happened?” Bart asks cautiously, stepping into the room.  
  
The funeral is three days later. Joan was always a warm presence, and while everyone had known it would only be a matter of time, it’s still a tragedy in its own right. Jay seems to be taking it the hardest, and the Allen family all does their best to be there for him.  
  
The car ride home from the cemetery is a quiet one. Nobody has much energy for chitchat, so scratchy music plays over the radio to fill the cavernous silence. Wally has shotgun while Iris drives. Barry had stayed behind to comfort Jay.  
  
The tension in the car feels thick and sticky. Iris and Wally might as well be projecting their thoughts onto a screen, because Bart’s been sensing the unease from the moment they received the news of Joan’s death. He can see it in the worried glances; in the way their hugs linger just a few moments too long.  
  
Last night Bart had lain awake in bed, unable to miss the hushed whispers coming from Barry and Iris in the kitchen while they thought he was asleep.  
  
_ “I can’t stop thinking about it, Bare. Every time I look at him I just see…” A sniffle. “It just feels so real now.” _ At that point Bart crammed his pillow over his head, muffling their voices.  
  
Why they all chose now of all times to let it sink in that Bart’s going to likely be next, he doesn’t know. But it’s irritating, that’s for sure. Joan is dead, and all it’s done is sparked the sudden epiphany that Bart has been dying for a good while now. Whoop-de-doo.  
  
Sighing as he watches clouds roll by, Bart takes his carton of cigarettes out of the front pocket of his funeral blazer and sticks one in his mouth.  
  
Iris chews her cheek, eyes fixed on the road. “The funeral was tasteful, don’t you think?” Bart can’t help the snicker that bursts through him, and Iris’ eyes cut to glare at him disapprovingly in the rearview mirror. “What?”  
  
He arches an eyebrow. “Tasteful? Really, Mom? Is that what you’re going to say when I’m the one in the casket?”  
  
Wally makes a choking noise. “Bart, what the fuck?”  
  
“Come on, we’re all thinking it. You guys are acting like this is the first time you’ve ever thought about death or something. I’m just saying that you should get with the program.”  
  
_ “Bart,” _ Iris snaps. “We’re not talking about this now.”  
  
Bart waves his hands. “Oh boy, what a surprise.”  
  
“Bart, stop it.”  
  
“Why? Everyone’s thinking it.”  
  
They are in the driveway now, and Iris twists around in her seat to look at Bart. Her eyes are misty but pissed. Pisty. “I don’t know what brought this attitude on, Bart, but it stops now. Your _ grandmother _ just died, and what this family _ doesn’t _ need right now is to pile more tragedy on top of it. Do you understand me?”  
  
Bart’s jaw tightens. “Fine,” he snaps. “Whatever. Let’s keep playing pretend, because god knows this family doesn’t know how to do anything else.” With that he throws open his door and steps out of the car, not waiting for Wally or Iris before going into the house and heading straight for his room.  
  
Bart is filled with a restless, sharp sort of energy that has an uncanny likeness to cheddar-flavored jelly beans. He slams his bedroom door shut as hard as he can—which isn’t very hard—before kicking at his bed frame for good measure. It only hurts a lot.  
  
Growling under his breath, Bart drops onto his mattress. When did it get to the point that just plain old _ anger _ makes him exhausted? Stupid lungs. Stupid cancer.  
  
He needs a distraction. He needs something to take his mind off the rage and the grief and everything in between. So, coaxing the rage down to a rumble, he takes out his phone and calls Jaime.  
  
“Bart Allen,” he says in greeting. “To what do I owe this call?” Something crashes in the background, but Jaime’s voice is as even as ever.  
  
“My sanity. Or lack thereof.”  
  
“Ouch. What happened?” Another crash.  
  
Instead of answering _t__hat _ question, Bart frowns and follows with his own. “Is something wrong over there? I hear stuff breaking.”  
  
“No, it’s just—” Jaime sighs, and his voice gets fainter as he turns away from the phone. “Tye! Dude, just—fuck, _ cállate por un segundo. _ Keep the angst to a minimum for a sec, ‘kay? I’ve got Bart on the phone.” Back into the cell: “Tye says hi.”  
  
“What’s going on?”  
  
“Nothing to worry about. He just ran away from home again and is in the midst of a well-earned tantrum at the moment. Anyway, what’s up with you?”  
  
“My grandma died.”  
  
The humor drains from Jaime’s voice like water from a colander. “Oh. I’m so sorry, Bart. Are you okay?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just kind of sucks being around my family right now, you know?”  
  
There is a deep thumping on Jaime’s side, which Bart is fairly sure is Tye punching a wall. “Fair enough. Is there anything I can do to help?”  
  
“Doubt it. I just needed to take my mind off everything.”  
  
“Want to come over?” A muffled yell. Followed by cursing.  
  
“You sure? Sounds like you’re pretty busy.”  
  
“What, with Tye? Nah, he just needs to let out some steam is all. This happens at least twice a month, so it’s old hat at this point.”  
  
“Um. Okay. See you in ten?”  
  
“You got it, _ hermano. _ ”  
  
Bart hangs up, retrieving one of Tim’s old hoodies from the closet just in case. He opens his door, only to hear Wally’s voice at the end of the hallway. He says Bart’s name, and Bart quickly ducks back inside, leaving the door open a crack so he can eavesdrop.  
  
_ “You don’t have to give me the lecture, Dick, I’ve heard it before.” _ A pause. _ “Well, what am I supposed to do? Bart needs me. Barry and Iris need me. And now that Joan is gone, it’s like everyone’s being hit in the face with the reality that Bart really could…” _ His sigh is laced with pain. _ “I can’t go. Not now. It’s my job to keep everyone together, and_—”  
  
Bart closes his door. He’s had enough eavesdropping for one day.  
  
Looks like he’s taking the window route tonight.  


* * *

  
  
Thankfully the buses are still running, so Bart makes it to the Reyes’ house in no time. Jaime’s little sister, Milagro, is the one who answers the door. She looks Bart up and down. “You must be Bart.”  
  
“Hi. I’m Jaime’s…” What, exactly? Friend? Good friend? Not-quite-boyfriend?  
  
Milagro is amused by his contemplation. “Trust me, I know. He won’t stop going on about you.” She jerks her head towards the inside of the house. “Jaime’s in the basement. First door on the left.”  
  
As it turns out, Tye’s “tantrum” is on par with a Hulk attack.  
  
Overall, the basement is cozy. To one side is a ratty green couch, and the walls are covered from floor to ceiling in what look like family photos. The floor, however, is strewn with shards of plastic from what appear to have been forks and spoons at one point in time. Tye is currently beating the fluff out of a pillow, and the pillow must be winning if the grunts and curses are any indication.  
  
Amidst the debris is Jaime who’s sitting in a bean bag chair playing a video game, paying no mind to the destruction. His grin could brighten a cave with its intensity when Bart comes in. “Bart Allen. What’s up?”  
  
Over Jaime’s shoulder, Tye snaps a handful of plastic spoons over his knee. “Is...he okay?”  
  
Jaime looks. “Tye? Oh, he’s fine. Just got into a fight with Maurice again. I keep plastic utensils down here for this exact reason, you know.”  
  
“Smart.”  
  
“Thanks.” He pauses his game, giving Bart his undivided attention. “So. Your grandma died?”  
  
Bart sinks into the bean bag beside Jaime’s. “Yep. I mean, she was in the hospital for a while, so we all saw it coming. But it’s still kind of hard on everyone. Grandpa Jay especially.”  
  
“I can imagine.”  
  
“And it’s not like I’m not sad about it—I’m totally sad. She was my grandma, you know? Joan was awesome. But at the same time, the whole thing just feels weird to me.” As always, with Jaime most of all, Bart finds himself spilling with his brain-to-mouth filter nowhere to be found.  
  
“Like, I’ve been sick for as long as I can remember. This is old news to basically the whole Allen clan. Yet for whatever reason, it’s like it just occurred to them that, hey, death happens sometimes. So now I’m stuck dealing with everyone giving me that sad look that says, ‘_yikes, this kid is probably going to be next.’ _ It’s just uncomfortable, you know?”  
  
Jaime’s eyes are serious, and he chews his bottom lip. “Yeah.”  
  
“I just needed to get out of the house for a while. Hence me being here.”  
  
Tye stomps on a fork, which crunches loudly under his boot. He reaches for one of the picture frames on the wall, and Jaime stands abruptly. “Dude, hold up.” He walks over and takes it from Tye’s hands. “Try for something less valuable, yeah?”  
  
His eyes sweep the wall and land on another photo—one of what must be upwards of four million which cover the expanse of the wallpaper. He takes it down and drops it into Tye’s waiting palms. “Here, this one was from before I got braces. Go crazy.”  
  
Tye drops the picture frame on the floor and grinds it under his heel, muttering insults and spitting swears all the while.  
  
“What happened with Maurice?” Bart asks, watching with interest and mild fear.  
  
Jaime shrugs. “The guy’s a jerk.”  
  
“He’s a gigantic _ asshole,” _ Tye spits, “and he deserves to get run over by a fucking _ tank.” _  
  
Jaime raises his hands in a “well there ya go” gesture.  
  
Bart nods, but he comes no closer. He doesn’t need to be in the blast zone for the flying pieces of plastic and glass, thank you very much. “So you’re running away?”  
  
“I _ ran _ away,” Tye says. He grabs another photo off the wall and holds it up, waiting for Jaime’s nod of approval before slamming it against the corner of a shelf—snapping the glass cleanly in half.  
  
“For now,” Jaime says. “He’ll go home tomorrow after he cools off.”  
  
Tye’s nostrils are flared. “I’m _ not _ going back there. Never again. Not when that heaping pile of living dog shit is still in the house.”  
  
Jaime pats him on the shoulder. “Sure, buddy. Whatever you say.” At Bart’s confusion, he explains, “Tye runs away a lot, but he always goes back sooner or later. Not that I support him going back to an abusive household, but he never lets me get the police or guidance counselors at school involved, so I just make sure he has somewhere to stay whenever he needs to take a break.”  
  
Bart’s brows furrow. “Why go back at all, though? From what I know, your stepdad is a shitbag.”  
  
Tye looks at him then, rage simmering beneath his skin. He snaps a spoon, but there’s less fire in it this time. “He is. I would do anything to get as far away from him as I can.”  
  
Bart waits, sensing a _ but _ coming.  
  
Tye grinds his teeth and drops onto the couch. “But...my mom won’t leave him.”  
  
That’s when the pieces start to slot together in Bart’s head, and realization dawns. “You can’t leave her alone with him.”  
  
Tye nods. “I’m all she’s got. If I’m gone, then he’s just going to hit her instead of me.” He schools his face into impassivity, but it’s impossible to miss the emotion hiding behind his eyes. “Whatever. That’s just how it is. Life sucks, and then you die.”  
  
Jaime frowns. “That’s dark, _ ese, _ even for you.”  
  
But Bart shrugs, sitting down beside Tye. He slips a cigarette from his pocket and puts it in his mouth. “He’s got a point.”  
  
“Wow, betrayal much?” Jaime says. “You were supposed to be helping me bring Tye _ out _ of this mindset.”  
  
“Well it’s true,” Bart says. “I mean, sometimes life is just terrible, and there’s nothing you can do about it. And then, after a long trial of failures and successes and tragedies and miracles, you suddenly drop dead and that’s it. You don’t get a report card or an award or a _ You Tried _ ribbon. You just...lose.”  
  
Tye is smiling a cocky sort of smile now, looking at Bart with what could pass for pride. He grabs one of Bart’s cigarettes and sticks it in his mouth but doesn’t light it. Whether that is in respect for the cancer, solidarity by way of not lighting what is meant to be lit, or simply for the sole reason that there is not a lighter in Jaime’s family’s basement—that is undetermined.  
  
“Bart, my good man, you and Jaime should have started dating years ago. I like the way you think.”  
  
Bart’s cheeks flame, and one look at Jaime tells him he’s not alone.  
  
“We’re not dating,” Jaime says.  
  
Tye arches an eyebrow. “Really? That’s depressing.”  
  
The three of them play video games for a few hours after that, none of them bringing up the topic of Maurice again. Eventually Tye falls asleep on the couch, leaving Bart and Jaime virtually alone.  
  
Then Jaime says, “Let’s go outside.” And they do.  
  
Jaime’s backyard has plenty of patio furniture, but the two of them sit on the grass instead. It’s dark out, so the stars are visible and twinkling overhead like drips of white paint on black construction paper. They sit in silence for a while, taking in the black sky; the crickets chirping out of sight; the breeze which drifts through the trees, making Bart glad he thought to wear a jacket.  
  
Bart reclines so now he is lying on his back, and Jaime does the same. They’re so close together that Bart can feel Jaime’s body heat beside him.  
  
“Pretty,” Jaime says, breaking the silence.  
  
Bart realizes he’s talking about the stars. “Yeah.”  
  
“If my mom were here right now, she’d be saying, ‘Isn’t it great how God can make such beautiful things,’ or something like that.”  
  
Bart picks his head up. “You believe in God?”  
  
“You don’t?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because if God did exist, then He would be kind of an asshole.” Jaime tips his head to the side in confusion. “I mean, look at me. I’m gay and have terminal cancer. _ Clearly _ God is just making fun of me at this point.”  
  
Jaime laughs. “I guess you have a point there.”  
  
“Damn right I do.”  
  
Jaime shifts a bit, and in the process his elbow briefly brushes against Bart’s. Just that contact alone has shivers shooting down Bart’s spine. Jaime’s looking at him more fully now. “What about heaven?” he asks. “Do you believe in that?”  
  
Bart thinks about it for a second. “I don’t know. Maybe.”  
  
“Maybe?”  
  
“Well there’s definitely no white clouds or golden harps, that’s for sure. But it would also be pretty wasteful if it was just lights out the second you die. So...maybe.”  
  
Jaime hums. “Whatever’s out there, I just hope they have skate parks.”  
  
“Never been.”  
  
“Really? You should try it. It’s fun.”  
  
“I’ll have to add that to the bucket list, then.”  
  
Jaime turns his head, curiosity piqued. “You have a bucket list?”  
  
“Of course. You don’t?”  
  
Jaime shrugs. “Never thought about it before, I guess. What’s on yours?”  
  
“Basic stuff. You know, travel to Egypt. See the Statue of Liberty. Make out with Vin Diesel. The usual. Tim helped me make it.”  
  
Jaime sits up a little, propping himself up on one elbow. “Can I see?”  
  
“Seriously?” Jaime nods. “All right. It’s not that exciting, to be honest.” But Bart sits up and takes out his phone. He goes to Google Docs and finds the file before giving it to Jaime.  
  
Jaime scrolls for a while until he raises his eyebrows. “Put a pride flag on the moon?”  
  
“The moon is gay and you know it.”  
  
Jaime shakes his head amusedly. His forehead wrinkles a moment later, and his eyes flicker back to Bart’s, surprised. “Wait, you’ve really never been on a picnic before?”  
  
“Never.”  
  
“_How?” _  
  
Bart shrugs. “I can’t walk for too long without running out of breath, and also my immune system like. Sucks. So picnics aren’t something we Allens do a lot of.”  
  
Jaime frowns, but he lets it go. Then his eyes snag on another one. “‘Fall in love’?”  
  
Bart snatches his phone back. “That one was from when I was younger. Didn’t get the chance to delete it yet.”  
  
“So...does that mean you _ have _ been in love before?”  
  
“No.” It doesn’t go unnoticed that Jaime relaxes when he says that. “It’s just unrealistic.”  
  
“More unrealistic than eating an entire pizza in two bites?”  
  
Bart holds up a finger. “Just because it hasn’t been done yet doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”  
  
Jaime laughs but is undeterred. “Seriously, though. How is falling in love unrealistic? People do it all the time. You can’t open a book without there being some romance plot smuggled into it.”  
  
“I’m not saying it never happens. I’m just saying it will never happen for _me. _ There’s a difference.”   
  
“That’s awfully presumptuous of you.”  
  
“Maybe I’m just a presumptuous person.”  
  
“Why is it so crazy to want to find love? As far as I know, that’s one of life’s basic goals.” He pauses. “Unless you’re aromantic, of course, which is perfectly valid.”  
  
Bart has been over this in his own mind often enough that the explanation comes easily. “It’s not that I don’t _ like _ the idea of being in love one day. It’s just that doing so would be too selfish.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“I don’t know of many great romances that end with one of them dying in the end.”  
  
“Romeo and Juliet.”  
  
“I meant ones with people who aren’t idiots.”  
  
“Titanic.”  
  
Bart rolls his head back. “Oh my god, stop. That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Jaime rests his chin in his hands, and Bart rolls his eyes. “So, like. Okay. Would you ever want to fall in love with someone, only to find out that they have a short amount of time left to live? And know that they let you fall in love with them anyway?”  
  
Jaime considers that. “I don’t know. I guess it’s a little unfair. But what if it’s worth it in the end?”  
  
Bart shakes his head. “Trust me, it’s not. Letting someone fall in love with me would be like handing them a winning lottery ticket and then setting it on fire. It’s mean. And I would never subject anyone to that if I could help it.”  
  
“What about what the other person wants?”  
  
“What the other person wants is to not have their boyfriend die on them. I know I can’t save my family and friends from that, but I _ can _ lessen the load by not letting anyone else join in.”  
  
Jaime’s eyes are locked on Bart’s, and the wistful gloom in them is hard to ignore. “That’s...really sad.”  
  
“So you see my point.”  
  
“No, I meant—it’s gotta be sad not letting yourself be happy.”  
  
“I’m happy,” Bart says, a bit more defensive than he intends it to be.  
  
Jaime smiles softly. “I’m not saying you’re not. I just think that letting yourself be as happy as you can is one of the most _ unselfish _ acts a person can commit. Especially if it involves making someone else happy at the same time.”  
  
He lies down on his back again, returning his gaze to the stars. “But I don’t know. Personally, I think anyone who gets to fall in love with Bart Allen has got to be a pretty lucky guy.”  
  
The words alone fill Bart’s stomach with butterflies—fluttering so intensely it’s a miracle he can keep himself from shuddering with the chills that raise goosebumps on his arms. Bart lies back down as well, keeping his distance but allowing his hand to drift so that it’s only a few inches from Jaime’s. The grass is soft against his skin.  
  
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Lucky to get his heart broken.”  
  
“You’re right,” Jaime says. He turns his head, and Bart can feel his breath against the edge of his jaw when he says: “Because it would be an _ honor _ to have my heart broken by you.”  
  
The grass at Bart’s side rustles, and he is met with warmth when Jaime’s hand slides closer so that their pinkies are touching. In a feat of both bravery and weakness, Bart moves his own hand closer, hooking his pinkie over Jaime’s. A minute later and they are officially holding hands—the warmth from Jaime’s palm seeping into Bart’s cold one.  
  
It’s nice. Neither one of them speaks again, not wanting to ruin the tranquil ambience that is twinkling stars and night air and the quiet hum of Bart’s oxygen cannula. And, even as time goes on, Bart has no intention of letting go of Jaime’s hand.  
  
Because tonight, Bart is tired. His hand is warm, his heart is giddy, and his brain is filled with philosophy and contentment swirling together into mush. So for now? He’s fine letting himself be weak for a while.  
  



	2. Part Two

“What do you _ mean _ you’re not going?”  
  
Wally sighs. “It’s not that big of a deal.” He’s rummaging around in his locker for his physics book, which he could have _ sworn _ he put in here…  
  
Dick Grayson leans against the wall beside him, and Wally pointedly ignores the stare he can feel burning a hole in the side of his head. “This is your _ future, _ dude. How is it not a big deal?”  
  
“What do you expect me to do, Dick?”  
  
Dick’s blue eyes are acute and serious—a rarity, but an insistent one. “I _ expect _ you to not turn down the opportunity to have the future you’ve been wanting for as long as I’ve known you. Have you even told Barry and Iris that you got in?”  
  
Wally closes his locker and starts walking down the hallway. Dick follows. “No, and they’re not going to find out.”  
  
“They’re your parents, Wally. You can’t hide this from them.”  
  
“Why not? It’s not like I’m going anyway.”  
  
“You just don’t want to tell them because you know they’ll make you go.”  
  
“So what if you’re right? This isn’t their decision to make. It’s _ my _ choice, _ my _ future.”  
  
Dick looks around, exasperated. “All right, where’s Bart? That kid will back me up here and you know it.”  
  
Wally waves a hand. “Iris kept him home today. He’s got a headache or something. And he most definitely would _ not _ back you up on this, because he’s not going to find out about it either. No one is.”  
  
Dick crosses his arms. “You’re being an idiot. Stanford is your _ dream college.” _  
  
“I can do just as much at Happy Harbor Community as I could at Stanford.”  
  
“Wally, no.” He puts a hand on Wally’s shoulder, and Wally doesn’t bother to shove him off. “You’re too smart for community college and you know it. You need to be at Stanford with Artemis where you belong. You can’t throw away your whole future just because you’re scared.”  
  
Wally whirls to face him. “So what if I am scared? What else am I supposed to _ do, _ Dick? I can’t leave now—I _ can’t _ . Bart’s only going to get sicker from here, and I don’t want to be hundreds of miles away when I get that fucking phone call telling me that—that—” He curls his hands into fists. “I can’t leave now. I’m all they’ve got, and I need to be with Bart while I still can.”  
  
Dick’s eyes are sympathetic, but that determined flame doesn’t go away. “This is a mistake and you know it. You’re throwing away everything you’ve been working toward.”  
  
Wally shrugs. “Too bad. If being there for my family means sacrificing my future, then that’s just the way it has to be. I’ve got to go to class.” He leaves Dick standing there in the hallway, knowing full well that he must look like the biggest asshole on the planet right now. And he probably is.  
  
But Wally needs to be thinking realistically, and he becomes only more convinced of that when everything goes to shit during first period.  
  
Wally is doodling flowers in the margins of his notebook when the phone rings, abruptly interrupting the lesson. Mr. Carr goes to answer it, and Wally is grateful for the lapse in...whatever he was talking about. History was never Wally’s strong suit.  
  
“Wally?” Wally’s head snaps up, expression already twisted in confusion. He never gets calls during class. “ Your uncle is here to pick you up.”  
  
All of the blood drains from Wally’s face at that sentence. Immediately his brain is assaulted with memories of how pale Bart looked this morning, how scratchy his voice was when he mocked Wally for having to go to school while he stayed home, the fact that Barry only ever picks him up early for one reason and one reason only ...  
  
Before Wally can comprehend his own actions he’s dropping his pen on the desk and scrambling out of his chair, uncaring about leaving his stuff behind or even the fact that he’s running out of class without a hall pass because _ Bart, Bart, Bart, please not Bart. _  
  
He doesn’t meet Roy’s confused stare as he passes him to the door and books it down the hallway as fast as his sneakers will carry him.  
  
In no time he makes it to the office, and he doesn’t need to say anything to the receptionist because Barry is already rising from his chair in the waiting area, a grim look on his face. He opens his mouth, but can’t seem to get out the words, so he closes it again. His eyes are glassy.  
  
Wally’s legs are shaking and it’s a miracle he’s still standing. “How bad is it?”  
  
Barry bites his lip instead of answering, and that’s when Wally's stomach sinks like a rock. Barry doesn’t need to say anything — Wally already knows.  
  
It’s bad.  
  
It’s very, _ very _ bad.

* * *

  
  
Consciousness comes slowly, and Bart almost wishes it would hold back for just a little while longer. His most recent memories are filled with intense, piercing agony, and just thinking about it hurts.  
  
Bart had woken up this morning feeling lightheaded, like his breaths were just an inch out of reach. Not to mention the headache building just behind his forehead —painful enough to bother him, but mild enough that a few painkillers helped.  
  
All in all it was no big deal, but Iris made him stay home from school, just in case. Not that Bart minded. He texted Tim while he sat on the couch, gleeful at the prospect of playing lawful hooky.  
  
He was just about to send another party popper emoji when out of nowhere, the pressure in his head began to steadily build. And build. And build. Until it grew to be so bad that tears burned in Bart’s eyes and his heart started racing because it fucking _ hurt, _ something was _ wrong. _  
  
With shaky fingers Bart dropped his phone, his face contorting in pain as the ache beame excruciatingly worse in the span of a few seconds. He grabbed his head in a panic, squeezing his eyes shut as stars burst behind his eyelids, and it wasn’t long before the screaming started.  
  
He wasn’t even aware of Iris running in until she was crouched beside him, her hands on his shoulders. He saw her lips moving, but he couldn’t hear her words over his own pain-filled sobs. It felt like a bomb was going off in the confines of his skull, searing and burning and crushing and _ torturing _ everything it touched.  
  
Bart must have passed out from the pain at some point, and never in his life had he been more grateful for unconsciousness than in that moment.  
  
But now he’s awake, and while a part of him wants to sink back into the painless abyss, he knows he needs to come around sooner or later.  
  
His head hurts, and his lungs even more so. He coughs, and the ache in his chest must have it out for him because it feels like he’s been crushed by a building. But at least he’s alive. A minor blessing.  
  
Slowly, Bart opens his eyes and squints in the bright light of the hospital room. Once his eyes adjust he spots his parents talking in the doorway. “Hey,” he calls out, his voice raspy and achieving barely a whisper.  
  
Barry and Iris look over and when they see Bart awake, their faces light up. Iris gets to the bed first and hugs him, taking care not to disrupt the tubes and wires attached to his body. “Bart, sweetheart, it’s so good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”  
  
It takes him a moment to make the words come. “...Moded. How long was I out?”  
  
“Almost three days. The doctor said there was fluid in your lungs, and it was keeping the oxygen from getting to your brain. Luckily they were able to drain it, and you should be able to come home in a few days.” She’s holding onto his hand tightly, as though maintaining skin contact at all times will magically speed up the healing process.  
  
Bart hears snoring to his left and looks over. Wally is slumped in one of the plastic hospital chairs beside Bart’s bed, fast asleep and drooling onto the collar of his t-shirt. “Has he left at all?”  
  
Barry gives him a tight-lipped smile. “We’ve tried taking him home to rest, but he wouldn’t leave. Said he wasn’t going anywhere until you woke up.”  
  
Bart frowns. “That’s...stupid.”  
  
“He’s not the only one waiting for you.” Bart’s brows furrow, and at first he thinks Barry means Tim, but then he follows with: “Some boy from your school? He isn’t allowed in the room because it’s family only, but he’s been waiting outside the ICU since the day you came in.”  
  
And Bart’s worn-out heart skips a beat. “Jaime’s here?”  
  
Barry snaps his fingers. “That was his name. You want me to let him in?”  
  
“No way. I must look like a corpse right now.”  
  
“A handsome corpse.”  
  
“Don’t let him in, ‘kay? Can’t see me like this.” Bart’s only been awake for a few minutes and already the exhaustion is kicking in again. His eyelids droop, but he doesn’t let himself fall back asleep. Not yet.  
  
Barry shrugs and sits back down at the foot of the bed, and Bart’s heart settles the rest of the way. He doesn’t say the real reason he doesn’t want Jaime here. That he doesn’t want Jaime to get a glimpse into Bart’s world. That he doesn’t want to pop the fragile bubble in which there is only Jaime and Bart and life, life, life.  
  
He doesn’t want to make it real—his death. The illness. Jaime needs to stay Jaime; not turn into yet another pitiful face. Another _ I’m so sorry. _ Another no before the maybe.  
  
Iris brings him Jell-o. When Wally wakes up, (after some hugs and almost-but-not-quite-shed tears), he eats most of it, and Bart is too tired to squabble with him over it. Every hospital stay is more taxing than the last, and thus it is only a few minutes later when Bart drifts off to sleep again.

* * *

  
  
Jaime calls. And calls. And texts. And calls again.  
  
And every time, Bart lets it ring out before eventually turning his phone off altogether. He knows everyone else notices, but they don’t say anything. When Tim visits on the second day he teases Bart about the “new boyfriend” camping out in the waiting room outside the ICU. At Bart’s reluctance to talk, though, he drops the subject.  
  
Finally, after four days of being confined to his tiny hospital room, Bart is released with a warning from his doctor:  
  
“You need to stop overexerting yourself, Bart. Your condition is only going to get worse from here, so it’s time to consider taking it easy from now on. We don’t want another close call like this one.”  
  
Bart doesn’t give in to his instinct to inform her that he hasn’t been _ overexerting _ himself at all. No exertion, period. His lungs just don’t know how to be lungs, and cancer doesn’t know how to give him a fucking _ break. _  
  
He knows he should call Jaime back. In the backseat on the drive home, he sits with his gaze set on the world speeding by, doing everything in his power _ not _ to think about Jaime. About how worried he must be, not hearing from Bart after his nearer-to-death experience. About how much of an asshole Bart is to not even give him an _ I’m okay _ text.  
  
He resigns himself to his glumness, completing the aesthetic with a sad, unlit cigarette in his equally sad, frowny mouth. Iris shakes her head as she looks at him in the rearview mirror.  
  
“I will never understand the not smoking thing.”  
  
“It’s a metaphor, I told you.”  
  
“It’s weird is what it is.”  
  
Being home is nice, but it does nothing to quell the churning in Bart’s stomach. He knows he’ll have to talk to Jaime eventually, and he is not looking forward to that conversation in the slightest.  
  
How is he supposed to tell the boy he likes that he can’t be with him because a clean break now would be less painful than if he waited until it was too late? How does he explain that he can’t let Jaime get attached and love Bart and let Bart love him, only to have his heart broken beyond repair when it all falls apart the second someone says “time of death”?  
  
It isn’t fair. Not to Jaime. Not to Bart. And he knows he needs to end things now, before it goes any further.  
  
So he takes the coward’s way out. He sends Jaime a text, which is revised and edited and deleted over and over until Bart finally presses send.  
  
_ Hey. I know I’ve been kind of an asshole by ignoring you, but I just don’t want this to go on any longer than it needs to. If it’s all the same to you, I think it would be best if we kept our interactions strictly platonic from now on. You deserve better than some kid who’s going to croak any minute, and I know you’re going to say that that’s not going to happen or whatever, but who are we kidding. I’m dying, Jaime. And I want there to be as little collateral damage as possible when that happens. Sorry. _  
  
A minute after it’s delivered, he sees a typing bubble come up, only to vanish again. Then there’s nothing for several minutes, and Bart does his best to pretend those aren’t tears forming in the corners of his eyes.  
  
Suddenly his bedroom feels stifling, so he goes outside for some fresh air. He sits on one of the creaking swings of their ancient, rusty swing set and scuffs his sneaker in the dirt. He nudges an anthill with his toe but doesn’t disturb it.  
  
A few minutes later, footsteps on the grass approach. Bart doesn’t look as the person sits on the swing next to him and starts swaying, forward and back. Bart stays still.  
  
“You okay?”  
  
Bart shrugs. “Crash.”  
  
_ Maybe crash will be our always. _  
  
Wally sighs. “You can’t avoid him forever, you know.”  
  
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”  
  
“Yes, you do.”  
  
Bart doesn’t reply, if only because talking more about Jaime is only going to weaken his resistance to the thick sap of emotion building up in his throat. So he turns his emerald eyes to the stars instead.  
  
When they were kids, Bart and Wally used to lie in the grass for hours after bedtime and try to name constellations. Now Wally knows the real names to just about all of them, but back then they would track down squares and ovals and unicorns.  
  
Memories of lying on the grass with Jaime, staring at these very same stars come to mind. “Do you believe in God?” Bart asks suddenly.  
  
Wally tears his eyes away from the sky overhead, startled by the change in subject. “No,” he says finally.  
  
“Why not?”  
  
A shrug. “Because it doesn’t make sense.”  
  
“Lots of things don’t make sense.”  
  
“If there’s a god, then why is there poverty? Why is there war? If God is real, then why would He let people get murdered and torn apart every day? Why would He let you—” Wally stops himself, biting back the rest of his words, but Bart knows what he was going to say.  
  
_ Why would He let you get sick? Why would He give a little boy a life filled with sickness and hospitals and an early death sentence? What kind of a god would take you away from us so soon? _  
  
Wally takes a deep breath. “I just...I don’t know. It doesn’t seem fair for someone to have the power to make the world amazing, and then they just...don’t.”  
  
The corner of Bart’s mouth lifts. “Life sucks, and then you die.”  
  
Wally swats the back of his head, but there’s no strength in it. “Don’t say that.”  
  
“That life sucks? Or that I’m dying?”  
  
“Both.”  
  
“You can’t ignore it forever.”  
  
“You can’t ignore Jaime forever.”  
  
“We aren’t talking about him right now.”  
  
“Then what _ are _ we talking about, Bart?”  
  
Bart digs the tip of his now dirty sneaker into the loose ground. “I found the letter, you know.”  
  
Wally stops swinging. “What letter?” he says carefully. Trying to play dumb.  
  
“You can’t stay here. I’m not letting you sacrifice your future just to stick around with me.”  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
Bart glares at him. “Stop it, Wally. I was rooting around your room for a candy bar the other day and I found the acceptance letter under your mattress. Stanford is your dream school. You have to go.”  
  
“You can’t control what I do. What if I want to stay here?”  
  
“We both know that you don’t. Wally, it’s not fair for you to put everything on hold because of me. Whether you want to face it or not, I don’t have a lot of time left. And that’s not going to change anytime soon, so you need to cut it out with this denial garbage and start living your life. Because _ you _ actually get to have one.”  
  
Wally goes quiet, and neither one of them mentions the thickness of his voice when he says, “This isn’t supposed to be about me.”  
  
“What’s it supposed to be about, then?”  
  
“I don’t want you to pass up something that could be good for you, Bart. Pushing Jaime away isn’t going to help anything.”  
  
“I’m not pushing him away. And, whatever. He’ll be grateful for it in the long run, anyway.”  
  
“Why’s that?”  
  
Bart gives him a deadpan look. “Wally. Look at me. I have, what, a few years left? At _ most? _ I’m not a boyfriend or a love interest in some romantic comedy, I’m a—I’m a _ grenade. _ I’m a grenade, waiting to explode and obliterate everything in sight. Is it so terrible that I want to minimize the casualties as much as I can?”  
  
The words might as well be blades for the pained look on Wally’s face. “You’re not a grenade, Bart. I know you think you are, but you’re not. Not to me, not to Barry, not to Iris or Tim or Jaime or anyone else.”  
  
Wally leans back and starts swinging again. “Are you a little shit? One hundred percent.” That gets a laugh out of Bart. “But we all like having you around. If we didn’t, we’d have gotten rid of you a long time ago. I mean, Barry and Iris have already got me and I’m fantastic, so the fact that we kept you this long is just. Wow.”  
  
Bart kicks him in the knee, which makes him laugh. “Listen,” Wally says, chuckles vibrating in his chest. “If you really don’t like Jaime, fine. Block him, murder him, whatever you want. But if you _ do _ like him, then you can’t force him to not like you back. Trust me.”  
  
And with that, Wally ruffles Bart’s hair and gets up to go inside. His parting message: “Don’t stay out too late or you’ll get pneumonia and Iris will fry my ass.”  
  
Bart watches him go inside before turning his gaze back to the stars. His phone chimes.  
  
_ I get it, Bart. If you don’t want things between us to go any further, then I understand. Just know that it’s not going to make me stop liking you. Like, at all. So if you’re okay with that, then we’re crash. _  
  
A second later:  
  
_ PS—I’m really glad you’re okay. :) _  
  
Bart smiles to himself.  
  
_ Thanks for understanding. _  
  
Jaime:  
  
_ So...exactly how platonic do our interactions have to be? Because I won’t lie, I’ve been thinking about kissing you for days now. But if you want to stick strictly to handshakes and gentlemanly salutes, then that works too. Bro hugs are especially sexy, or so I’m told. _  
  
Bart:  
  
_ Sorry, no kissing. But I suppose hand-holding can be sort of platonic…if you want. _  
  
Jaime: _  
_ _  
_ _ Crash. _  
  
Bart: **  
** **  
** _ Crash. _  
  
Jaime: **  
** **  
** _ Omg stop flirting with meeeeee. _  
  
Bart: _  
_ _  
_ _ Crash. _

* * *

  
  
They don’t talk about it again after that. As far as Bart and Jaime are concerned, there is no such thing as cancer. Bart doesn’t have that oxygen cannula which he’s been relying on more and more often for the shortest of treks. Jaime doesn’t need to slow his pace every time they go somewhere in order to let Bart catch up.  
  
Bart isn’t dying.  
  
They resign themselves to their bubble—the safe place in which they can pretend that what they have doesn’t have to be temporary. They’re friends, despite the stolen glances and the way their touches linger just a second too long.  
  
Four days ago they hung out in Jaime’s backyard, and when Jaime grabbed Bart’s hand, Bart didn’t pull away. He didn’t want to, even though he knew he should have.  
  
Today, as always, Jaime meets him at the front of the school building. His face lights up when he sees Bart, and Bart wishes he could get used to that smile.  
  
“Hey,” Jaime says when he gets close enough. Lately, he’s been calling Bart _ ese _ and _ hermano _ far less, which is a detail Bart chooses not to fixate on. Much.  
  
Barry had told him a while ago that he didn’t have to keep going to school if he didn’t want to. His underlying meaning? It wouldn’t be fair to force the dying kid to go to school every day once he goes from “casually dying” to “hardcore dying.” Which Bart is. Hardcore dying. Every day. But Bart insisted he could handle it, and so was granted tentative permission to keep going.  
  
Whether that was because Bart is stubborn or because cancer is his free pass to get whatever he wants is unknown.  
  
Bart’s first class is on the second floor, so the two of them go straight to the elevator as usual. Only this time, they stop in their tracks.  
  
_ Caution: Out Of Order Due To Repairs. _  
  
“Well fuck,” Jaime says. He turns to Bart. “I...guess we can skip first period?”  
  
Bart clenches his jaw as he glares at the sign. He tugs on Jaime’s arm. “Come on.”  
  
Jaime follows. “Where are we going?”  
  
“We’re taking the stairs.”  
  
Jaime stops immediately, and Bart isn’t strong enough to force him to keep going. “Um. Bart, are you sure that’s a good idea?”  
  
“Why wouldn’t it be?” It’s a challenge, and Bart knows he’s putting Jaime in an uncomfortable situation, but he doesn’t have it in him to care.  
  
“Bart, come on. I’m not going to tell you what you are and aren’t capable of, but—”  
  
“Good. Then let’s go.”  
  
So what if his lungs suck? A set of fucking _ stairs _ isn’t going to stop him from going to class just like anyone else, cancer be damned.  
  
Jaime clearly wants to protest more, tell Bart that he’s being crazy and is sick enough as it is, but wisely he keeps his mouth shut. Just follows Bart to the stairwell without a word, though Bart can feel his concern like a flame behind him.  
  
The stairs look steeper than Bart thought. And awfully high up. Hell, is he really getting worried about a flight of _ stairs? _ Pathetic. He’s pathetic, and it’s that thought which pushes him to grab the bannister and climb the first step, all but forcing his shitty lungs into submission.  
  
Jaime doesn’t say what he’s clearly thinking; just stays directly behind Bart, like he’s expecting him to fall. By the time Bart makes it a third of the way up the stairs, his lungs are burning and his breaths are coming in quicker.  
  
Then they get halfway up the first flight, and Jaime takes hold of Bart’s wrist. “Bart, are you sure this is a good idea?”  
  
“Yes,” Bart pants. “I’m fine.”  
  
“Maybe you should take a break—”  
  
“ _ No,” _ Bart snaps, trying to sound assertive in spite of the weakness in his voice. “I’m not letting some—some fucking _ stairs _ keep me from living my life. Who gives a shit if I’ve got cancer? I’m still just as—just as capable of—” He breaks into a coughing fit, gripping the bannister like his life depends on it.  
  
Luckily there are only two more steps to the top of this first set of stairs, and once Bart makes it he all but collapses onto the floor, panting and coughing. “Fuck,” he gasps. Pounds his fist into the floor. “ _ Fuck!” _  
  
Jaime’s hand is on his back. “Bart, it’s okay.”  
  
“Is it?” Bart asks, looking up at him with as much fury as he can muster. “I can’t climb up fucking _ stairs _ anymore, Jaime. What’s next? I can’t walk two feet without needing a break? I can’t—can’t do _ anything _ without my stupid fucking cancer-polluted lungs slowing me down?”  
  
He’s embarrassed at the wetness clouding his vision and quickly wipes his eyes with his sleeve. “I’m getting more useless by the hour.”  
  
Jaime takes both of Bart’s hands and ducks his head a little to look him in the eye. They are sitting across from each other on the dirty, dusty stairwell floor, heads less than a foot apart. “Bart, listen to me: You are _ not _ useless.”  
  
Bart just rolls his eyes, pulling away, but Jaime puts his hand on the side of Bart’s face and forces him to look at him. “I mean it. Not a single thing about you is useless, and you never will be. You’re...you’re extraordinary.”  
  
Bart huffs weakly. “All of those ‘extraordinary’ qualities will die when I do, you know.” That makes Jaime shut his mouth, hurt lining his features, but it only spurs Bart on more. “What are you hoping to get out of this?”  
  
“I don’t know what you mean.”  
  
“I’m a grenade, Jaime. My days are numbered at this point. However you want this thing between us to work out, it’s not going to happen. One of these days I’m going to die, and that’ll be it. It’s not like we’re in some fucking movie where everything turns out perfect in the end. I’m sorry, but it’s just not.”  
  
Jaime looks like he wants to cry, and Bart’s pretty sure he himself already is. “You think I don’t know that?” he says softly, but with enough feeling it makes Bart’s heart ache. “I know you think we’re doomed no matter what and that this is going to end like some romantic tragedy, but…”  
  
“But what?” Bart half-laughs, half-sobs. “There is no but. There is no future. There’s nothing.”  
  
“There is _ not _ nothing,” Jaime says. “There’s me and you, and me likes you a whole damn lot. I’ve never liked anyone the way I like you.”  
  
“It won’t last long,” Bart reminds him.  
  
“So? Who cares? Nothing is permanent anyway. And even if we don't have a long time, I swear that I’m still going to try and take every second with you that I can.”  
  
Bart sniffles. “That’s stupid.”  
  
“Guess I’m just a stupid person, then.”  
  
Bart stares at him. At Jaime and his stupid face, his stupid eyes, his stupid hopeful expression. And knows that the thing that exists between them will end the same way in which it began; with absolutely nothing. And yet.  
  
Jaime’s hands are warm on Bart’s. “I know you wanted this to stay platonic, so if this isn’t what you want, then I’ll stop pushing. We can just be friends. I can’t promise I won’t continue to be obsessed with you, but I—”  
  
Bart kisses him. Just like that.  
  
There is no thought—no hesitation. No impulse control whatsoever, as Bart Allen—sick, cancer-y, _ impulsive _ Bart Allen—throws every fuck he had to give straight out the window because Jaime is here, he’s beautiful, he’s one of the few rays of light in Bart’s dim world, and what he needs right now is to shut his brain the hell up so he can enjoy his limited time to kiss the fuck out of Jaime Reyes.  
  
And he does. Gladly and with no regret whatsoever.  
  
Jaime hesitates for only a moment before he starts kissing back with all the energy and enthusiasm that must have been boiling under his skin for who-knows-how-long. Bart can relate.  
  
Bart’s grabbing at the back of Jaime’s neck and Jaime’s lips are soft and there are still salty tears drying on Bart’s face, but right now? Right here in this dusty, disgusting stairwell? He wouldn’t trade this moment for anything in the world.  
  
Looks like Bart can check this one off the bucket list.

* * *

  
  
Wally can tell before Bart even walks through the door. “You guys made out, didn’t you.”  
  
Bart turns beet red, freezing in the doorway like he got caught stealing priceless art. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
Wally simply arches an eyebrow and pointedly flips the next page in his book.  
  
“We’re just friends. Honest.”  
  
“Uh-huh. You know you have a hickey on your neck.”  
  
_ “Shit—” _ Bart quickly yanks up his shirt collar, which sets Wally off laughing.  
  
“Dude, I was kidding. So you kissed?” He waggles his eyebrows.  
  
The blush reaches all the way to Bart’s ears, and his eyes burn with vengeful intent. “I could strangle you to death with these tubes, you know.”  
  
“Try it. I’ll tell Barry and Iris about your new boyfriend.”  
  
“I’ll tell them about the Stanford letter.” Bart raises a smug eyebrow when Wally blanches.  
  
Then he narrows his eyes. “Fine. Call it a draw for now?”  
  
“Deal.”

* * *

  
  
That night, Jaime texts Bart a love note: _  
_ _  
_ _Things Bart Allen Is Not: _

  * _Useless_
  * _A grenade_

  
_ Things Bart Allen Is: _

  * _Crash_

* * *

  
Saturday night sneaks around the corner, and the Allen family minus Bart is at Wally’s track competition—Artemis included. Bart stopped going to Wally’s competitions years ago, insisting that he likes to take advantage of the opportunity to have the house to himself.  
  
The truth? Bart misses it too much.  
  
He misses running. He long ago tore down the posters that had previously cluttered his bedroom walls, each showcasing a different world-famous athlete. Running was his life at the time, even after he got sick and knew his dreams of joining those athletes in the Hall of Fame was as likely as waking up one day to find they had developed a cure for cancer.  
  
Yeah, right.  
  
Wally hasn’t quit, though, and Bart is secretly grateful for that. While it leaves a bitter tang in his stomach knowing that his dreams are unreachable, at least he can take comfort in living vicariously through Wally.  
  
Tonight, however, he is perfectly content inviting Tim over to hang out instead. They are lying side by side on his bed, upside down with their heads hanging over the edge as they eat mini marshmallows by the handful. Because friendship.  
  
Bart’s phone rings and he answers it, still upside-down. “Art Ballen, how can I be of service?”  
  
“What are you doing right now?” Jaime asks. His voice settles over Bart like cotton, and he knows he shouldn’t be filled with as much delight as he is hearing it.  
  
“Not much. Just hanging with Tim.” He holds his phone out. “Say hi to Jaime.”  
  
Tim gargles like Chewbacca.  
  
“He says hi.”  
  
Jaime laughs. “In that case, what would you say to going somewhere?”  
  
Bart chews another marshmallow while he talks. “Go where?”  
  
“That’s a secret.”  
  
We’re taking the mysterious route today? All right. “Uh...okay. When?”  
  
“Now.”  
  
“Like...right now?”  
  
“Right now. You in?”  
  
Bart is already sitting up, thrill zinging through his bloodstream. “Well, duh. I’ll see you in ten.”  
  
“See you then.” They hang up, and Bart hops off the bed.  
  
“Where are you going?” Tim asks.  
  
“No idea.” He picks up a shirt from the floor and takes out the nubbins of his nasal cannula, preparing to change. Every time he’s separated from the oxygen it feels like diving underwater without a snorkel —like he’s mentally preparing to run out of air any second now.  
  
“Nope. No way,” Tim says without looking up from his phone. “You are _ not _ wearing that shirt.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
He gestures to the shirt like it should be obvious. “For one, that thing has at _ least _ five holes in it. And it smells like nacho cheese. Wear the red one.”  
  
Bart sniffs the shirt, and—yup, he’s got a point. Grumbling, he drops it back on the floor and goes to his closet. “Thanks, Tim Gunn. Can’t you go home or something?”  
  
“Nope. I want to meet your boyfriend.”  
  
Bart pulls on the shirt Tim picked out. “He’s _ not _ my boyfriend.”  
  
“You sure about that?”  
  
“...No.”  
  
True to his word, Jaime arrives ten minutes later on the front porch holding a handful of dandelions. How he manages to look like he’s seeing the sun for the first time every time he looks upon Bart’s face, Bart will never know. He takes the flowers and tries to tone down the blush rushing up his neck.  
  
Tim appears behind Bart seemingly out of thin air and sticks out his hand before Jaime can so much as think to get a word in. “Tim Drake. Bart’s best friend in the whole world, which means I’m the one who drags the body across the floor when he gets hurt.” He says it all with a pleasant smile.  
  
Jaime smiles back and shakes his hand. “Jaime Reyes. Bart’s boyfriend, who has no intention of hurting him whatsoever.” Fireworks go off in Bart’s head. _ Boyfriend! _  
  
“Good to hear,” Tim says. “And I already know who you are. I may have stalked you on Twitter for a while. And Instagram. And Webkinz.”  
  
Bart gives Jaime a funny look. “You still have a Webkinz account?”  
  
“Hey, now. You leave me and my thirty-eight penguins alone.”  
  
Tim nudges Bart in the side. “I like this guy,” he stage-whispers.  
  
“Cool. Get your own.” He turns back to Jaime. “So where exactly are we going?”  
  
“What part of ‘it’s a secret’ didn’t you understand?”  
  
Bart rolls his eyes. “Fine, I’ll play along. Tim, you want to come with?”  
  
“I think I’m going to stick around here and play with your XBox, thanks. Don’t want to play third wheel on your little love excursion. I will advise you to leave room for Jesus, though. Also be back by curfew.”  
  
“Thanks, mom,” Bart says over his shoulder as he starts pushing Jaime out of the house. “And you had better be gone by the time the others get back. I’m not dealing with Barry calling the cops on you again.”  
  
“In my defense, it’s your own fault for leaving the windows unlocked.”  
  
Once Bart and Jaime are through the threshold Bart shuts the door, cutting off whatever else Tim has to say. “All right, let’s get this show on the road,” Bart says, walking down the driveway to where Jaime’s dad’s car sits on the asphalt.  
  
Jaime follows, bemused. “Tim is way shorter than I thought he’d be.”  
  
“He always is.” Bart climbs into the passenger side, ignoring the burn in his lungs that erupted halfway down the porch steps. “Take me to wherever we’re going.”  
  
Jaime gets into the car. “You’re being awfully pushy about this.”  
  
“Life is short, and I’m hungry. We’re going to have food at some point, right?”  
  
Jaime starts the engine and winks. “And you say we don’t know each other.”  
  
They only drive for a short while —four minutes, to be exact. Only to end up parking just outside the fence encasing one of the parks that Wally and Bart used to go to when they were kids. It being nearly sunset, the playground is empty of children.  
  
“What are we doing here?”  
  
Jaime just puts his finger to his lips, and Bart rolls his eyes. He manages to wait patiently—or as patiently as a person with Bart’s inherent impatience levels can be—while Jaime grabs a backpack and a fleece blanket from the backseat.  
  
Then he takes Bart’s hand and starts leading him into the park, heading across the grass. “Wait, are we walking somewhere?” Bart asks. Already he can feel his lungs crying at the thought of physical exertion. “Because I don’t know if you forgot, but I get tired walking from one room to the other these days, so...”  
  
Jaime smiles fondly. “Don’t worry, our destination is...right here.” And with that, he turns to face Bart and spreads his arms proudly.  
  
Bart looks around. “Oh, boy. This secret trip is a whopping twenty feet away from the road. How romantic.”  
  
Jaime spreads the blanket over the grass before sitting, and Bart does the same. Then, with a flourish, Jaime pulls out a McDonalds’ bag and two cans of Coke from his backpack. “ _ Voila,” _ he says proudly. “Bart Allen, I give you a picnic.”  
  
Bart takes the Coke. “Not bad. Though I do think the secret part was a bit much.”  
  
“What can I say? I’m dramatic. Cheeseburger?”  
  
They sit under the fading light of sunset, hearts warm in spite of the early spring air. It’s quiet aside from the hissing of the oxygen tank, but Bart finds that he doesn’t mind the silence. These days he finds himself more and more content with the calmer moments in life. Whether that is a sign of character development or simply a side effect of dying, he doesn’t try to think it over too much.  
  
“So,” Bart says as he polishes off Jaime’s fries. “What’s the occasion?”  
  
Jaime is currently playing with an ant on a stick, which he is more enthralled in than he needs to be. “Does there need to be a reason to have a picnic with my boyfriend?”  
  
“No, but I know there is one.”  
  
Jaime keeps his focus on the ant, not looking Bart in the eye. “I just thought you might want to...you know. Cross this off your bucket list.”  
  
Over the years, Bart has gotten better at reading what people aren’t saying. Jaime doesn’t need to explain that deep down, he wants to take advantage of as many experiences he and Bart can have together as he can while Bart’s still kicking. That’s more than reasonable, Bart supposes.  
  
Which is why he nudges Jaime’s ankle with his own. “Consider it crossed, then. Now all I’ve gotta do is learn to speak French and win the IAAF Continental Cup. And a couple others.”  
  
Jaime’s head tilts with confusion. “I thought Wally was supposed to be the track guy.”  
  
“Call it a family thing,” Bart says.  
  
Jaime looks expectant for further explanation, and Bart sighs. He sips at his soda and his gut churns with the popping of the carbonation. “Before the cancer came around, I used to be a runner. And since the day my brain got big enough to perceive things like dreams, my goal was always to be the fastest athlete in the history of track and field. And until I turned eleven or so, I still held out hope that it could happen. Maybe one day they would miraculously find a cure for cancer and I could get my racing career back on track.”  
  
He shrugs and leans back on his hands. “But I was a kid then. Nowadays I just leech off of Wally.”  
  
Jaime is silent for a minute, and Bart starts to worry he just scared him off with his depressing “what could have been” talk. Then he opens his mouth. “My dream is to be a dentist.”  
  
There is silence for all of ten seconds before Bart bursts out laughing. To the point where in no time he’s gasping for breath, like his shitty lungs are chiming in to remind him, _ Hey, man, remember who’s in charge here. _ “Oh my god, you—I go on and on about my crushed hopes and dreams, and you want to be a _ dentist?” _  
  
“It’s an admirable goal!” Jaime insists. “Dentists make up to six figures a year, you know.”  
  
Bart just laughs and laughs. It’s not long before he feels himself getting lightheaded, and he has to force the laughter down to a more manageable level before he passes out again like last time.  
  
When he finally manages to stop, giggles bursting through every few seconds, he notices Jaime staring at him with this pleased look on his face. It reminds Bart of the first day they met—the way Jaime watched him like Bart was the most intriguing thing he’d ever seen.  
  
“What?” he asks. “Do I have something on my face?”  
  
Jaime smiles softly, meeting Bart’s green eyes with his own chocolate ones. “I’m in love with you.”  
  
The words are like ice water and Bart waits for more—for the _ gotcha _ or the _ whoops I changed my mind _ —but more doesn’t come. Then he shakes his head. “No you don’t.”  
  
“I do,” Jaime says. “I really, really do. And I know you think we’re doomed. I know you don’t think it will last long and that this whole thing will end in crushing tragedy and all that. And I know that any second an asteroid could take out the whole earth, or that the cure for cancer could be discovered in the next five minutes. And I know that I’m in love with you, Bart Allen.” His words are as earnest as Artemis and Wally’s stupid _ always, _ and Bart is pretty sure his brain is short-circuiting right now.  
  
But Jaime is looking at him with those eyes, smiling with that mouth, looking as beautiful as any beautiful boy can in the fading sheen of the sunset, and it’s that image which makes Bart’s stomach fill with butterflies and pop rocks.  
  
Slowly, he reaches across the blanket and covers Jaime’s hand with his own. He waits until Jaime lifts his gaze to meet his.  
  
“Then I guess that’s one more thing I can cross off the list.”  
  
Jaime’s resulting smile can melt ice caps, and Bart knows he’s right.

* * *

  
When Bart gets home, it’s late. Not so late that he’ll get busted for breaking curfew, but enough that Barry gives him a smug sort of smile when he enters the house. “I have to say, I’m starting to like this Jaime kid. You never used to go anywhere unless we dragged you kicking and screaming.”  
  
Bart dodges the hand that goes to ruffle his hair as he passes. “A fine observation, Dad.”  
  
“Oh, and Tim is welcome over whenever he wants, but do you think next time you can tell him not to eat my corn nuts? I swear I keep hiding them, but somehow the damn gremlin sniffs them out every time.”  
  
“Noted,” Bart replies with a snicker as he goes to his room. He opens the door and finds Wally sitting on his bed, already changed out of his track uniform. Beside him is a first place trophy, and instantly Bart breaks out in a smile. “You won?”  
  
Wally gives him a _ well, obviously _ look. “Course I did.” He pushes the trophy closer to Bart. “So, here. Happy birthday or whatever.”  
  
“It’s not my birthday.”  
  
A shrug. “It’s always someone’s birthday somewhere.” He pats the trophy. “Besides. I won it for you anyway, so it’s only fair that you get to keep it.”  
  
Bart sits next to him. “Is this one of those pitying cancer gifts? Because I will shove you off this bed.”  
  
Wally chuckles. “Trust me, it’s definitely not that. It’s actually a goodbye gift.” At Bart’s confused and slightly panicked expression, he continues, “I’m going to miss you while I’m at Stanford.”  
  
It feels like an ice cold current charts a path from Bart’s brain to his heart as that sinks in. “You mean...you’re going? For real?”  
  
“I told Barry and Iris about it on the way home. Artemis and I are leaving at the end of July.”  
  
Before he’s aware of his own actions, Bart throws his arms around Wally and hugs him as tightly as he can. “I can’t believe it,” he says, knowing that this is the second best news he’s heard today.  
  
Wally hugs him back, but there’s an uneasy tension there. “You’re not mad or anything, right? Because you can tell me if you are.”  
  
Bart pulls back to punch Wally in the shoulder. “Are you kidding me? This is _ awesome.” _  
  
“Really? You’re not lying? Because for a while there I was worried you’d think I was, like, abandoning you or something.”  
  
_ “Hell _ no,” Bart says. “I’ve been feeling guilty for weeks because I thought you were sacrificing your future for me, but now that I know you’re actually going to go and live your life and be an awesome college student? I couldn’t be happier!”  
  
Wally releases a deep breath. “You don’t know what that means to me, kid.”  
  
“What made you change your mind?”  
  
Wally throws an arm around Bart’s shoulders. “As much as it pains me to say it, you were right. It’s not fair to me to throw everything away just because I’m scared of what might happen. Wherever I go I’m always going to be there for you, no matter the distance.” He squeezes Bart extra hard at that.  
  
“Good,” Bart says. “Because if you don’t answer all of my calls while you’re away, I’m going to march over to California and beat your ass.” Wally shoves Bart off the bed, laughing when he’s promptly smacked with a pillow.

* * *

  
  
That night, Wally wakes to discover Bart’s face an inch away from his own.  
  
His shrill scream makes Bart laugh so hard he has to sit down when it plunges him into a coughing fit. Still, it does nothing to deter whatever mission of his requires waking Wally up at what must be around two in the morning.  
  
“We’re going to school,” is his only explanation. He pulls Wally’s blanket off, baring his defenseless toes to the cold world.  
  
“The hell we are,” Wally says with a yawn. “I’m going back to sleep.” He tries to tug his blanket back, but Bart is unwavering.  
  
“Come on,” he says. “You’re driving, and I’ll pay for milkshakes on the way. Now get dressed.” As he leaves the room, he adds, “And bring a pen and paper with you.”  
  
Wally sighs but does as asked. When Bart gets like this, it’s best to just obey and wait for whatever sugar high he’s on to dwindle back with time. He leaves his t-shirt and pajama pants on but tugs on his sneakers.  
  
When he opens the driver’s side door of his car, Bart is already sitting in the passenger’s seat. He’s practically bouncing in place, clearly gearing up for something. Whatever it is, he gives no indication as he takes the pen and paper from Wally.  
  
“You drive, I’ll write.”  
  
“What exactly are we writing?” Wally starts backing out of the driveway.  
  
“A eulogy.”  
  
He slams the brake, making the car jerk them both forward without warning. “A _ eulogy?” _  
  
Bart is undeterred. “Yep. Now get going. I already called Tim and Jaime, and we’ve got to get there before they do.” He poises the pen over the sheet of paper. “So. First line?”  
  
They work on the eulogy all the way to the school, and Wally would be a liar if he said he wasn’t already getting teary-eyed. Whatever crazy plan Bart’s got, Wally has a sinking feeling that it’s not going to be a fun one.  
  
As predicted, they are the first to show up. Bart makes him park on the grass by the racetrack behind the school, then directs him to sit on the bleachers. Bart gets winded twice on the walk from the car to the track, and it worries Wally more than he cares to let on.  
  
When Tim and Jaime arrive, Bart is sitting on the second row of the bleachers and swinging his feet like a kid. Jaime kisses him when they meet, then sits beside him. There is concern laced through every line of his face, but he says nothing.  
  
Tim, however, stands there looking disgruntled. “Why are we here?” he asks. One hand is fisting the side of his hoodie. The other grips a piece of paper.  
  
“Did you do what I asked?” Bart asks, ignoring the question in its entirety.  
  
“You mean bring the eulogy you forced me to write at two in the morning? Yes.”  
  
“Just tell us what’s up,” Jaime says patiently.  
  
Bart straightens up in his seat. “Okay. So as you are all well aware, I’m basically a dead kid walking at this point with the way things are going. And while I have plans to attend my own funeral as a ghost, I figured it would be smart to have a pre-funeral just in case. That way I’ll know what you’re all gonna say about me and I can make edits. Cool?”  
  
Wally’s throat tightens. “Bart…”  
  
Bart holds up a finger. “No. I don’t care that this will make you sad and have to accept that I won’t be around forever and whatever else. I don’t care. I need this, okay? So read your damn eulogies, and let me have this.” He sits back, satisfied.  
  
“Can’t we reschedule this for the daytime?” Tim asks. “I’m not emotionally ready to cry my eyes out so early in the morning.”  
  
“Sorry, buddy, but time isn’t exactly something I have a lot of, so... “ He claps his hands twice. “Get cracking, fellas. Timbo, you’re up first. Make me cry.”  
  
Tim rolls his eyes and steps back so that he’s standing at the foot of the bleachers, facing the others like a preacher to a congregation. He unfolds his eulogy. “This is stupid.”  
  
Still, he clears his throat. “So, uh, for those of you who know me well, you’d know that this isn’t my first funeral. Far from it, actually. I’ve written my fair share of eulogies before, but want to know something? Never before have I broken down three times while writing one and had to start over again because my tears were fucking up the ink. And that’s probably because never before has the person I lost been Bart Allen.”  
  
His voice cracks, but he keeps going.  
  
“Never before has the person I lost been my best friend in the whole world, and honestly? That’s a pretty screwed up thing. That’s...it’s _ really _ screwed up. Because I know I’m going to miss him until the day I die too, and that’s really fucking unfair. It’s so —this is so fucking _ unfair—” _  
  
Tim can’t continue because his throat is too thick to keep going, so he crumples up his eulogy and throws it half-heartedly at Bart. “Fuck you, man. Now everyone is going to know I have feelings.” It’s meant to be funny, but then a sob breaks through and they don’t stop after that.  
  
Bart hasn’t lost his grin. “I liked it. You should write poetry.”  
  
“Be quiet,” Tim manages, “you’re supposed to be dead during this.” Still, he goes over to where Bart is sitting and practically collapses onto the bench, latching onto Bart like a koala and burying his soaked face into his shoulder.  
  
Bart kicks Wally in the shoulder. “All right. Your turn, Walls.”  
  
Wally sniffles as he stands up. He goes to the spot Tim was standing in and takes out his own eulogy. “Fuck, I’m gonna start crying,” he mutters. He clears his throat, but it has little effect. “Okay. I can do this.”  
  
He can’t, but he does anyway. “Now, I know everyone here knew Bart at some point since you’re at his funeral and all, but there are a few things you might _ not _ have known about him, seeing as you haven’t been stuck living with him these past few years.”  
  
The corners of his mouth tug up as he sniffles again. “For example: before the cancer showed up, Bart loved to run. Like, a lot. Iris used to make him wear one of those toddler leashes because otherwise, he’d wander off at twenty miles an hour on those chubby kid legs.”  
  
Bart laughs.  
  
“In fact, Bart would probably be even faster than me right now if...well, you get the idea. Another thing you might not know is that Bart was picky. Picky enough that he would make his loved ones go to a stupid pre-funeral so he could edit their eulogies, which I’m fairly certain is considered cheating—”  
  
Bart cups his hands around his mouth and boos. “Stop bullying me at my own funeral.”  
  
“Quiet, you.” Wally looks back down at his speech. “And lastly, something you definitely didn’t know about Bart is that he wasn’t just my cousin. He was my—” He breathes in shakily, but pushes on. “He was my little brother. And the only explanation that I can come up with for the fact that _ he _ has to go first instead of _ me _ is because the world is unfair. It is. It’s fucking cruel in that whatever’s good can’t last long. Because I finally got a brother—something I’ve wanted since I was a kid—but that same cruel fucking world decided to just—to just take him away from me, and I—”  
  
A sob breaks through. Wally has been keeping the tears at bay from the moment he and Bart had begun writing, but now the dam is finally cracking. “I loved Bart. I loved that kid so much, and I know I’m —I’m going to miss my little brother for the rest of my life.”  
  
Wally is full-on crying now, and he doesn’t even possess the presence of mind to be embarrassed by it. He goes over and hugs Bart, resting his chin on top of his hair.  
  
“You’re the worst,” Wally grumbles between hiccups.  
  
“You’re worse,” Bart replies, his own eyes glassy. Then he tugs on Jaime’s hand, which he’s been holding since the very beginning. “You’re up, babe.”  
  
Jaime stands and pulls a slip of paper out of his pocket. How he has kept his composure this long, Wally has no idea.  
  
Jaime lowers his eyes and begins to speak. “Hi. Um, I’m Jaime Reyes, and Bart Allen was my boyfriend. In the short time I’ve known him, he somehow wormed his way into...everything. He’s in all of it—heart, brain, and soul.”  
  
Bart is smiling, and his tears have slowed to a silent stream.  
  
“Now, I’m not going to get into our awesome gay love story, because I honestly don’t think I’ll be able to get through more than a sentence of that without crying my eyes out. But you should know that I loved Bart. I loved him... _ love _ him more than I ever thought I could love a person, and that’s going to suck. Because now he’s gone, and I don’t know if I even want to see a world that doesn’t have him in it. Bartholomew Allen was everything to me, and he still will be, because I think some things are just infinite. Space is infinite. Numbers are infinite. And the numbered days that Bart and I had together were infinite too. So thank you, Bart. Thank you for giving me our little infinity.”

* * *

  
  
Bart and Jaime are sitting side by side on the bleachers. Tim is asleep a few rows below, and Wally left ten minutes ago to grab them all coffees from Dunkin’, which leaves them alone for the time being.  
  
Bart is wearing Jaime’s hoodie — still toasty with his residual body heat — and it’s so cozy he could fall asleep right here. But he doesn’t. As Jaime said, all they can do is take every second they can, and Bart has no intention of letting a single one of them go to waste.  
  
The stars are slowly fading, and the black sky is turning to dark blue. Jaime and Bart have their eyes fixed above, taking in the endless abyss. The only sounds are the crickets and the hum of Bart’s oxygen tank. And Tim’s snoring.  
  
Bart rests his head on Jaime’s shoulder, and Jaime holds him just a little tighter. “You okay?”  
  
Bart is honest. “I’m crash. You?”  
  
He can’t see Jaime’s smile, but he can feel it against his hairline. Can sense it brightening the dawn. “Crash.”  
  
“Crash.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought Bart would die after this? GUESS AGAIN, HOES. A month after this story ends, the Wayne foundation cures cancer and Bart lives to the ripe old age of forever so suck it. 
> 
> Goodnight and good luck, hoes. *salutes*

**Author's Note:**

> The second chapter will likely be up either tonight or tomorrow, so yeah. Also a big thanks to Julie for helping me out with this and for coming up with so many fantastic ideas for this au, she’s a genius and I would die for her. ♥️♥️♥️


End file.
